


Pictures of You (Pictures of Me)

by Reioka



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alien Invasion, Artist Steve Rogers, Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant, Bucky Barnes as Captain America, But Like A Small One, Fix-It, M/M, Mechanic Tony Stark, Multi, Reincarnation, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-27
Updated: 2020-08-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:28:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26144119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reioka/pseuds/Reioka
Summary: It’s been nearly five decades since the fight with Thanos. Bucky has taken the mantle of Captain America once Sam retired, and leads the current team of Avengers. Twenty-five year-old Grant Bishop-Chavez is a popular fan artist who makes his living off Avengers art, though he favors Bucky, Tony and Steve art the most. Twenty-three year-old Mark Kim is a young mechanic who spends nearly half his income commissioning Grant because every time he sees a piece of his art, he feels like Grant is painting his dreams. Once they realize they both live in New York City, they become fast friends, nearly inseparable. One fateful day, Bucky’s path crosses the young men’s path and feels like he’s seen ghosts from his past.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers/Tony Stark, Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 26
Kudos: 201
Collections: WinterIronShield Bang Ultimate Collection





	Pictures of You (Pictures of Me)

**Author's Note:**

> So, to be clear, and warning of CHARACTER DEATH: Steve and Tony both die in the final battle, and these are their reincarnated selves. Steve is Grant, and Tony is Mark. It's still Steve and Tony, just with different names! *cough*And less PTSD.*cough cough*

Pictures of You (Pictures of Me)

_Mark staggered on his feet. Everything hurt, and his arm felt heavy. He looked up at the person—monster—in front of him, breath heaving._

_“I am… inevitable,” Thanos said, looming above him, and snapped his fingers._

_Mark couldn’t help but flinch, even though he’d watched his armor’s nanotechnology transfer the Infinity Stones into his gauntlet with his own eyes. He glared at Thanos, took one last, deep breath, and said, “And I… am… Iron Man!” Then he forced himself to lift his arm, gauntlet dull with battle grime, and used the last of his strength to snap his fingers._

Mark jolted awake with a gasp, disoriented and confused. His arms slapped around uselessly before he realized he was still in bed. He rolled onto his side and hugged a pillow to his chest until he stopped shaking. It took longer than he cared to admit, residual fear and anxiety rolling through him. Once he’d calmed down, though, he carefully sat up, pulling the dream journal from his bedside table with trembling fingers. He breathed deeply, like his therapist had taught him, until he could hold the pen properly, then wrote down the plot of his dream, with as many details as he could remember.

He didn’t like this part, reliving the nightmares, but his therapist had suggested it. ‘Maybe they’re trying to tell you something,’ she’d said. She’d volunteered to help him work through them, but he’d never felt comfortable sharing them with her, especially since he could rarely reread them himself, breath coming short when he thought of his head being dunked under water or being in the cold silence of space. At least this way, though, he could put the dream out of his mind and continue on with his life, instead of being left a shaky, anxious mess because he hadn’t slept for three days out of fear.

Mark put the dream diary back in its drawer, took another deep, calming breath, then finally allowed himself to get up, wandering into his living room.

“Beep beep!” Dummy cried after him, and he knew that it was bobbing in its cage.

“Don’t ‘beep beep’ me. You know how to open your cage,” Mark grumbled. “Also, use your words.”

“Smoothie!” the gray parrot cried as it opened its cage and flew out into the living room.

Mark sighed and set out the blending cup. Dummy flew over, smashed into the cabinets, and fell onto the counter. Once it regained its feet, it settled in front of the blending cup and screamed until Mark put a bowl with a selection of fruit in front of it. Then it began picking up various pieces of fruit and throwing it in the blending cup. He watched Dummy throw in several slices of banana and was quite pleased. Perhaps this smoothie would be palatable.

There was a knock at the door. Mark gave Dummy one last, nervous look before he went to answer it. “Hello, what can I—” he began.

“I really wish you would stop getting such big packages,” Mr. Lang said, looking exhausted.

Mark was mortified. “Mr. Lang, I would have come and gotten it myself if you’d called! You’re too old to be carrying heavy packages to the third floor!”

“Hey,” Mr. Lang began, offended.

“You almost threw your back out lifting your grandson last Christmas,” Mark deadpanned.

“He is a large child,” Mr. Lang insisted, but then threw his hands up in defeat when Mark scowled at him. “Alright! I’ll call next time.”

Mark curled his fingers around the edge of the package so Mr. Lang could let go of it, trying to hide how excited he was when he realized it was the painting he’d commissioned. “I’m just trying to save myself from your wife’s wrath.”

“Ah,” Mr. Lang said, shoulders sagging. “Please don’t tell her I’ve done this.”

“As long as you call me next time,” Mark told him magnanimously. He began pulling the package inside. “I’ll see you at the roof party on Friday, Mr. Lang.”

“I’m bringing hummus!” Mr. Lang told him cheerfully as he left.

“Oookay,” Mark said to himself, waving after him, then turned his attention to the package, dragging the painting into his apartment quickly. He’d been waiting two months for it, and he was very excited that it had finally arrived.

Grant Bishop-Chavez had quickly become one of Mark’s favorite artists. He’d seen a piece of art at a gallery by chance and had immediately been haunted by it—a painting of Iron Man shooting across a starry sky. It had unsettled something in him, had made his heart ache, had made a part of him think ‘I miss it up there.’ He’d walked past the gallery every day for a week before he finally bit the bullet and paid two hundred dollars for it. He’d put it up in his bedroom and then researched Grant extensively.

He was so obsessed with Grant’s art that he’d immediately started saving up for a commission. He’d snatched up smaller pieces of art in between saving, and Mark was a little embarrassed to admit that part of the reason he’d stopped bringing people home was because the last time he’d brought home a woman he’d really liked, she’d taken one look at his art collection and teased him about being a creepy fanboy. He hadn’t been able to say why it had really hurt his feelings, but he’d stopped seeing her, and had also stopped letting people into his apartment. But that was okay—he had his art, and his parrots, and the monthly rooftop parties with the neighbors.

The painting was exactly like he’d imagined, and Mark had to remember to take a breath after a moment. It was a large piece, seventy inches by seventy inches, and he had no idea where (or even how) he was going to hang it. But that was a problem for future-him, he decided, eyes darting to take in each loving brushstroke. He'd commissioned a painting of Captain America, the Winter Soldier, and Iron Man sitting together after a battle, and Grant had certainly delivered.

There was Captain America, pushing his cowl back, looking an incredible mixture of powerful and vulnerable. He was sat on a curb, shield lying on the ground, elbows on his knees, shoulders tight and mouth opening to heave a sigh. The Winter Soldier was sat next to him, right knee pressed to Captain America’s left, leaning back on his metal hand while his other reached to pull his goggles up. Iron Man was approaching behind them, armor scuffed and dented, one gauntlet lifting to open his mask. The rubble behind them was perfect. There was a piece of broken curb that Mark had the thought that he could reach out and grab it.

It had been worth all the saving he did, Mark decided, putting it up against the wall. “What do you think, Dummy?” he asked, not looking away from it.

“Smoothie!” the parrot screeched.

Mark whipped around, then squawked in offense as he rushed over to the counter again. “Dummy! You know you can only put fruit up to the fill line!”

“Smoothie!” Dummy shrieked again, flapping its wings.

Mark muttered to himself and began picking out the larger pieces of fruit so he could get the blender closed. “Go get Butterfingers and You.”

The parrot stared at him for a very, very long moment, then turned and flapped over to the cage in the corner of the living room, carefully pulling the lock open and allowing the two macaws to sidle out.

“Idiot, I know you do this just to be a brat,” Mark mumbled half-heartedly, taking the fruit back to the fridge and grabbing some oat milk for his smoothie.

.-.-.-.

_“—really need to branch out and consider doing original work. Everyone loves your style! I’ve seen your commission work that isn’t Avengers art and it’s incredible! Imagine how much people would be willing to pay for that!”_

“Yeah,” Grant said, noncommittal, as he spun in slow circles on his chair. His studio seemed so empty now that he’d sent his most recent commission off. “Uh huh.”

_“Are you listening to me?!”_ his agent shouted irritably.

Grant yelped and fell backward out of his chair. “Uh—”

_“Grant,”_ Natalie snapped. _“It’s not that I hate your Avengers art. You and I both know I don’t. I’m just saying, perhaps you’d appeal to a larger audience if you did some more original pieces.”_

“Ow,” Grant hissed, gripping the back of his head with the hand not clutching his phone.

Natalie paused, then hesitantly asked a concerned, _“Grant?”_

“’m fine,” Grant grunted, giving his scalp one last firm rub before he let go, sitting up slowly. Luckily, his head only gave one sort of offended throb before settling into the dullest of aches. It probably wouldn’t even leave a lump. “Just fell. And I’ll think about it, okay?”

_“What, like for a minute before you send me a ‘no?’”_ Natalie asked, and he could just hear the raised eyebrow in her voice.

Grant wanted to be offended, but he’d done that several times now, and she really _was_ the best agent he could ever ask for. “I’ll give it some serious consideration,” he promised, setting his stool upright again. He sat down gingerly, then, once he was certain he was stable, began turning in circles again. “And I’ll probably say no! But I’ll actually think about it first.”

_“Well,”_ Natalie said, slightly sour. _“As long as you’ll think about it. Not everyone is going to drop thirty-five hundred on your art, you know.”_

“I know,” Grant exclaimed defensively. “I’m aware. Thanks a lot.”

_“I wasn’t trying to hurt your feelings. It’s just that… one day this memorial art isn’t going to be so popular, Grant.”_

Grant frowned, scratching the back of his head as he turned to look at a half-finished portrait of the Black Widow he’d been doing for Natalie’s birthday. “I dunno,” he said quietly. “Every time the anniversary of the Reversal happens…”

_“There’s an upswell in demand for memorial art, I know,”_ Natalie sighed.

Grant smiled, suddenly smug. “Did you notice that I didn’t call it the Unsnappening this time?”

_“Aaaand you said it just now, I hate you, goodbye forever,”_ Natalie snapped, and hung up on him before he could laugh at her. Almost immediately after, his phone buzzed with texts from her that were just dozens of angry faces.

Grant laughed, then shoved his stool across the floor, crossing the studio in one swift glide to settle in front of his drawing table. His sketchbook was open to the last idea he’d been sketching. Or, well, the last dream. Sometimes it felt an awful lot like memories, when he was dreaming, like the hand holding a shield was his, or the feel of stiff fabric was pressing against his own skin. He could _smell_ things in his dreams, like blood, or sweat, or burning rubble. It was almost like he’d been there, fighting Nazis, or aliens, or robots, or a giant threat to Earth.

He flipped through a couple of other sketches halfheartedly, then turned to a clean page and picked up a pencil, trying to draw someone he’d seen on the subway the other day. It was an okay sketch, he figured, but he didn’t really feel attached to it. Not like he did with all of his Avengers work. He sighed and turned it back to yet another page, frowning when the sketch of Captain America jumping off a building appeared much more quickly than the original drawing he’d been concentrating on. Maybe original work really _wasn’t_ for him.

Grant glanced at his phone when it buzzed again, finishing his outline before he finally reached for it. He laughed when he saw Natalie’s text, a simple, _‘Car’s ready for pickup,’_ followed by a very unimpressed emoji. At least there were no hard feelings, he guessed. Or at least, he hoped so. Natalie could be vindictive for the strangest of reasons sometimes.

All in all, he was pleased that his car was ready so soon. He’d expected it to be finished in a week, considering the loud _ka-thunk-brbrbrbrbrb- **clang**_ it had made a few days ago while he was innocently changing gears. He was glad his yoga instructor had suggested him—he’d have to bring Greer a smoothie or something the next time he went to class. He was tired of taking the subway everywhere, and he really missed his car, so he immediately hopped up to get changed into actual clothes and go fetch it. One last subway ride and he wouldn’t have to avoid eye contact with another subway-goer ever again.

.-.-.-.

His car wasn’t actually _quite_ ready when he got to the mechanic. “He wanted to make sure your transmission will outlive you,” the teenager manning the desk said, looking amused. His nametag said ‘Billy,’ and he appeared to have been looking through a book on self-defense.

“What if I don’t want my transmission to outlive me?” Grant asked.

“Sell the transmission and scrap the car,” Billy said with a shrug. He pointed at a little sitting area with a plush couch and a coffee table with magazines on it. “Go ahead and have a seat while you’re waiting. He should be finished soon. Oh! Have a cup of coffee if you want. Or I think we might actually have some tea? Whatever you like.”

Grant nodded and turned to the sitting area, wandering over and peering down at the magazines. He didn’t know why he was surprised that they were all about cars or their maintenance. As his knowledge willfully boiled down to ‘it takes me places and will probably fall apart around me eventually,’ he wasn’t really interested in a car magazine. But his phone was only at twelve percent because Natalie had been sending him memes for the entirety of the subway ride over, and he didn’t know how long he’d need to entertain himself. So he wandered over to the little card table to make himself a coffee, unable to help a laugh when he saw that the Keurig was made to look like the Iron Man armor.

“Yeah,” Billy said, not looking back up from his book. “The owner’s a huge Avengers nerd. It’s embarrassing.”

“I dunno,” Grant replied, luckily deciding to be more amused than offended, as he popped in a pod of hazelnut-flavored coffee and put a paper cup in the tray. “They _did_ save the world.”

“So? I recycle, so I save the world all the time,” Billy scoffed.

  
Grant had to laugh again. It seemed like most kids shared his opinion these days—either the original Avengers weren’t actually that cool, or they weren’t relevant anymore. Grant figured he couldn’t really blame the jaded teens—even _he_ was born after the Reversal. He took his cup of coffee and was about to sit down on the couch when he noticed a small canvas in the corner. Looking at art would be a lot more interesting than trying to parse his way through a car magazine he didn’t even want to read in the first place. He was going to laugh if it was just a painting of another car—but he felt his breath catch in his throat when he saw the eyes of the Winter Soldier glaring back at him, blood dripping down the side of his face.

He’d painted that during a bad month, when he’d dreamed of reaching out for someone’s hand and missing by fractions of an inch. There had been no respite—every night he’d seen that hand, heard that scream as he missed and whoever it was fell to their death. He’d made the painting on a night he’d been too afraid to fall asleep and see it again, and then had worked on it the next night for a few hours before he allowed himself to sleep, and then the next, and the next, until finally the painting had been finished and he could sleep through the night again. He’d given it to Natalie to sell as soon as it had dried, too unsettled to have it in his studio, staring at him accusingly.

Now here it was again. Somehow, in the light of the mechanic’s waiting room, he was able to see details that he hadn’t before, either too tired to notice or too afraid. The Winter Soldier’s brows were furrowed together not just in anger, but in guilt. It wasn’t just rage in his eyes, but pain. His grimace wasn’t just from the flinch of a blow—it was like he was also trying to choke back a helpless scream. The blood dripping down his face was almost shaped like a red gauntlet. Or maybe even like one of Captain America’s gloves.

“Dummy says that you can go get your car now,” Billy said, cutting into his thoughts and making him jump.

Grant turned, hoping he didn’t look as hollowed out as he felt. “Huh?”

Billy lifted his head to raise an eyebrow at him. “Dummy? It says you can go get your car.”

“What,” Grant said.

Billy rolled his eyes and jerked his thumb toward the windows separating the workshop from the office and waiting room space. Grant turned to look obediently. Whatever he’d been expecting, this wasn’t it.

There was a large gray parrot with a red tail in the window. Its wings were spread wide, and it was bobbing back and forth in the strangest form of dance Grant had ever seen. Its mouth was open, making it appear to have a goofy smile.

“I’m not going in there. It could kill me,” Grant declared immediately, because he’d heard horror stories about parrots. He was still pretty sure the veteran he’d worked with had been joking about a parrot biting of his finger, but when he’d gone home and Googled whether or not it was possible, the internet had informed him that it was. He hadn’t trusted birds ever since.

“Fine, don’t get your car then, I don’t actually care,” Billy said, not looking away from his book again.

Grant scowled at him, then looked at the door to the workshop and took a deep breath. Then he walked over to step through it, holding his coffee at the ready to defend himself. He didn’t want to scald a bird, but he would, if it came down to it.

The parrot turned to look at him, and he froze. Grant wondered if he should avoid eye contact, like he’d always been told to do with unfamiliar dogs. But the parrot quickly lost interest and leapt off the windowsill to go roost with—two other parrots, okay, okay, that was fine. That was _fine_. It’s not like one would have been enough to kill him anyway, probably—

“Don’t worry about them,” a voice called out. “As long as you don’t approach them, they won’t even be interested in you.”

“I have no intention of approaching them ever,” Grant said, turning to face the owner of the voice.

He was dimly aware of the coffee cup slipping out of his hand as he finally saw the other man. Grant was certain that he’d never seen him before, but there was something… something so bone-achingly familiar about him. The shape of his face. The smile quirking up the side of his mouth. The clever brown eyes staring up through long, dark lashes. _I wonder if his hair still curls when it gets too long,_ he found himself thinking, and then his mouth was saying, “Tony?”

“Huh?” the guy asked, smile fading to a confused frown. “No, I’m Mark. Mark Kim. My… name is on the door?” He glanced down at the floor, then looked back up at Grant in concern. “You okay? Need me to call someone?”

Grant felt as if he’d suddenly come back into his body. He could feel coffee soaking into his shoes, could feel the air from one of the overhead fans he hadn’t noticed when he’d come in. He felt suddenly embarrassed, like he should turn tail and run, even though he had no idea why—he should probably take Mark up on the offer to call someone, with how off-kilter he felt. “Sorry,” he said slowly, looking down at the floor, where his coffee cup was lying with its contents spilled across the cement. “I’ll clean it up.”

“How ‘bout you sit down,” Mark offered instead, pushing a wheelie chair toward him.

Grant wanted to insist he was fine, but he dropped into it like a sack of rocks, hands shaking. “Thanks.”

The mechanic hovered, mouth opening and shutting as if he thought he should say something, then not say something. Grant had the slightly hysterical thought that that looked familiar, too.

“Your car is a piece of shit,” Mark finally blurted out, and then immediately looked like he wanted to die.

Grant, somehow, felt comforted by this, and grateful for the subject change. “I think she’s pretty solid.”

Mark scowled at him. “Your transmission was about ready to fall out the bottom.”

“But the body’s solid,” Grant insisted.

Mark took a deep breath, pressing his clasped hands to his lips for a moment, then let them drop back to his sides. “I’m pretty sure that the rust is the only thing holding this sucker together.”

“She was cheap,” Grant finally said.

“Well I sure _hope_ she was,” Mark scoffed.

Grant heard wings flapping and immediately covered his head, ducking a little. Luckily, Mark just held his hand up (he might have even said ‘beep beep,’ but it was hard to hear over the… parrot’s beeping) and guided the parrot onto his fucking head oh God he was putting the parrot on his head.

Mark noticed and smiled a little, rolling his eyes as he reached up to ruffle the parrot’s chest feathers. “Don’t worry. The parrots only like landing on me. In fact, Butterfingers and You won’t even leave their perch until you leave. Their last owner was really uuuuuuuh… mean. Let’s go with mean.”

Grant frowned, because he might have feared the birds, but that didn’t mean he wanted them to _suffer_ or anything. “Oh, poor things.”

“Yeah, well, they went from neglected to really fuckin’ spoiled, so,” Mark said, shrugging, and looked up at the parrot on his head. “You’re making our customer nervous, so go back to your perch.”

“Beep beep!” the parrot cried.

Mark scowled up at him. Grant had to laugh—it probably should have continued to terrify him, but the parrot looked so pleased with itself, and Mark having to almost cross his eyes to glare at it was just comical. The parrot bobbed its head a few times before it finally squawked out ‘smoothie!’ and flew back over to the perch in the corner and began violently shredding what looked like compacted paper hanging from a string.

“…Is that normal,” Grant began.

Mark considered the question, then shrugged. “Eh.”

“Eh?” Grant repeated, frowning in concern, but Mark had already turned his back on him, ambling over to the old beater he’d brought in to be fixed. “So is she good to go?” he asked, getting up to follow him.

“I mean, you can certainly drive her off the property, but I’d be remiss if I didn’t warn you it was just a matter of time before you came back,” Mark said, rubbing the back of his head. He looked like he was considering a sympathetic wince, then decided against it. “I’m actually officially advising you that you should probably start looking for a new car, because the body work alone is more than the car itself is worth. So! Buy a new car, sell the transmission in this one, and then sell the rest for scrap.”

“Maybe I’ll just buy a motorcycle instead,” Grant sighed. He’d always been drawn to them, and he figured he could learn most of the upkeep himself.

Mark smirked at him. “Ooh, a motorcycle. Sexy. You’ll have to beat the women off with a stick.”

Grant turned to look at Mark again, and something in his chest ached, and he thought of all the missed chances there had been. “Hey, would you—” he began, and then paused, confused. Missed chances? He’d never seen Mark before in his life.

Mark tipped his head, as if to urge him to keep speaking. The way he peered through his lashes with curiosity seemed bone-achingly familiar, too. “Would I what? I do consult on purchases, if you want me to take a look at a prospective vehicle.”

“Do you wanna go get a burger?” Grant blurted out, before he could talk himself out of it.

Mark blinked at him slowly, perplexed. “I have to admit. No one’s ever tried to pay me like that.”

Grant gaped at him. Surely the man couldn’t be that oblivious. “I… I’m asking you on a date.”

“Oh,” Mark said. “Ah. Uh, no one’s ever done that either.”

Grant was appalled. “No one’s _ever_ asked you out on a date.”

“Not _here_ ,” Mark answered immediately, offended. “People don’t usually find me attractive when I’m covered in grease! Also?! You saw me with a fucking bird on my head! Even one parrot is a dealbreaker for most people! I’ve got three!”

“It’s just a burger, Mark,” Grant said, rolling his eyes. “Not a marriage proposal. Besides, I figure we’ll have at least a couple of things to talk about. You’ve got my art on your waiting room wall, after all.”

“No I don’t,” Mark said immediately, and then did a doubletake. “I do? You’re Grant? Grant Bishop-Chavez?”

Grant paused. He’d sort of expected Mark to have picked up the painting on a whim. He hadn’t expected Mark to actually… _know_ him. He spread his hands a little. “In the flesh,” he said, with more confidence than he felt.

Mark gave him a long, slow up-and-down, and he would have felt uncomfortable or embarrassed, except then Mark was saying, “I thought you’d be smaller.”

Grant opened his mouth, then closed it again. “I’ve actually heard that before. I think? I’m not sure where. Why? Is Grant a small name?”

“I mean… you’re not the picture of a starving artist,” Mark admitted.

Grant stared at him for a moment, then said, “I’m not starving. I just sent off a thirty-five-hundred-dollar commission today.”

“Yeah, I know,” Mark replied, looking vaguely embarrassed.

“You know?” Grant asked, brows furrowing together. Then he took a step back. “You know. Oh God. Mark. Mark Kim. Your signature was on the check. You commissioned a thirty-five-hundred-dollar painting from me.” He took a few minutes to truly digest that fact before he asked, “Did you like it?”

Mark’s eyebrows flew up in surprise. “Yeah,” he answered, as if it should have been obvious. “I love it. I could gush about it for hours.”

Truly, it only firmed Grant’s resolve. “So let’s discuss it over a burger.”

“Uh… okay,” Mark said, apparently startled that he was still insisting. “Yeah. Okay.”

“Okay,” Grant agreed, and finally let his lips spread into a wide smile. “When do you get off? I’ll come pick you up.”

“Six,” Mark admitted. “But I wish you wouldn’t.”

“You said she’s fine to drive,” Grant pointed out.

“I’m not getting in your car,” Mark insisted.

Grant eventually managed to get Mark to meet him at the diner he was thinking of instead of coming to pick him up in his own (safer) car, and the bickering had almost been soothing. He’d have to look into buying a new vehicle as soon as he got home, he decided, sliding into his car and pulling it out of the garage. He remembered what Mark had said about the motorcycle he’d suggested and couldn’t help a smile. Maybe Mark actually _would_ think he was sexy. He kind of hoped he would.

.-.-.-.

“Oh wow,” Grant said.

Mark flinched a little. “Yeah, I was starting to regret it when I opened the door,” he admitted, ducking his head.

Grant stared at the back wall of Mark’s apartment, which was covered in art. _His_ art. So, so much of it. Mark had probably spent a fortune on it.

“I know it’s a lot,” Mark began, then sighed, shoulders sagging.

“…I feel like I just could have traded you a painting for the work you did on my car,” Grant said after a moment.

Mark perked up a little at the thought. A commission in exchange for transmission work? That actually would have been alright. Then he noticed the way Grant was looking around, eyes widening when he saw the other walls adorned with his artwork, and he wondered if it would be in bad taste to walk back outside and into traffic. This was too much. _He_ was too much.

“I, ah. I can understand if you want to leave,” Mark said, looking down at his feet. He should have learned his lesson—everyone he brought home was always at least a little turned off by his collection of Avengers art. It had been foolish of him to think that just because Grant was the artist behind it, he’d be okay with it. God, it was probably even worse for him, seeing how obsessed he was with his art. He should have just lied and said he had more birds. Grant probably would have given his apartment a wide berth if he thought there was another parrot in it.

“I’m not gonna lie and say this isn’t weird, because it definitely is,” Grant began. “But on the other hand, I—this one’s backward. Is it one of mine?”

Mark finally looked back up, confused, to find Grant hovering in front of a painting that he’d eventually had to turn to face the wall. He’d seen it and had immediately been filled with dread, but he’d also felt in his bones that he couldn’t allow anyone else to have it. He could still see the jagged brushstrokes, red-white-and-blue bleeding into red-and-gold. Captain America’s shield cracking Iron Man’s chest plate in half. A smoldering metal arm in the background.

Every time he looked at it, he had nightmares of the same scene, over and over, putting his hands up to protect his face as a man he’d respected drove the sharp edge of a shield through his heart, ribs cracking, breath knocking out of him. Captain America turning his back on him, picking up the Winter Soldier and walking away, apparently not caring if he bled out right there on the bunker floor.

Grant was turning it around.

“Don’t,” Mark choked out, because he didn’t want to see it and suffer another night of nightmares, but it was too late.

“Oh,” Grant said, as if it had been punched out of him. He looked like he was about to cry. “Oh, no. No. I told Natalie to burn this one.”

Mark immediately felt a flare of protective anger, walking over to snatch it from his hands. “It’s mine now. You can’t take it back.”

“Mark,” Grant began.

“It’s _mine_ ,” Mark insisted. “I wanted it and I bought it and it’s mine so you can’t have it back.”

Grant held his hands up worriedly as he quietly repeated, “Mark, I just—”

Mark curled his arms around it protectively, clutching it to his chest and turning so he couldn’t grab it back. “Just leave it!”

“I just want to—” Grant tried again, circling him.

Mark snarled and jerked to dodge his hands again. “I don’t _care_ what you want because it’s mine!”

“Will you just let me—” Grant asked irritably, finally managing to curl his fingers around the edge of one side of the painting.

“No!” Mark shouted, and it sounded terrible even to his own ears, jagged edges cutting through the air. He wanted to stop, but the words came tumbling out anyway, almost against his will. “It doesn’t belong to you. You don’t deserve it!”

Grant jerked his hand back as if burned, eyes wide and hurt.

Mark took a few deep breaths and immediately regretted it, because once he started, he couldn’t stop. His chest hurt, and for all that he was inhaling, it felt like he couldn’t get any air. His fingers were shaking as he peeled them off the painting, which clattered to the floor, the sound making him flinch as he stumbled backward into the wall, trying to escape, knocking several other pictures from the wall as he slid across it. They hit the ground with loud thuds and clatters of frames breaking, and there was even the sharp sound of a glass pane breaking.

He felt like he was back in the cave, gasping for air even as he coughed up water, or up in the silence of space, unable to suck in a breath in his terror, or like he was back in the bunker, shield driven through his chest. He couldn’t breathe, and all he wanted to do was tearfully get the experience written down so that he never had to think about it again. He heard someone call out, “Tony!” but it seemed like it was from far away. He reached out for it anyway, though, hoping to find something to cling to.

Arms were wrapping around him, and he choked on a sob, because it felt so much better than when he’d wake up alone in bed, shaking and crying as he tried to block out his nightmares. “Steve,” he whimpered, and then sucked in a wet breath. Except it wasn’t Steve. It was Grant. Oh God. This must be the worst date Grant had ever been on. He’d probably never let him purchase any of his art ever again.

“I’ve got you,” Grant said, stroking a hand down his back. “I’ve got you.”

“Grant,” Mark whispered, voice shaking.

Grant paused, then leaned back, considering. “I think you were right the first time.”

Mark blinked up at him, sniffling. “What?”

“And I think I was, too,” he continued, more firmly. “I don’t know what it was that made me call you Tony, but I think whatever it is… it was right. We know each other. Or, we did. Before.”

“Before what,” Mark croaked, even as his mind immediately conjured pictures of a battlefield, repulsors aimed at a shield to take out several enemies at once, or a smile after the battle was done with a breathless, ‘we won,’ or cold fear tempered by a firm ‘together.’

Grant reached out to grab his hands. “Tony.”

“Stop,” Mark whimpered, trying to pull his hands away.

“Tony,” Grant said again, more firmly. “I knew it was you as soon as I saw you. I knew the shape of your face, the way you smiled, your eyelashes.” He laughed, a little on the wetter side. “I even wondered if your hair still curled when it got too long. And here you are, with all my art, every painting of Iron Man and Captain America that I’ve ever done. How can you deny it?”

“I’m not Tony anymore,” Mark croaked. “I don’t _want_ to be. Tony Stark suffered so much. I don’t want to remember it. Not anymore than I already do. I can put everything I remember in a little box and pretend it wasn’t me.”

Grant’s face fell. “You don’t want to remember anything? Not even me?”

“I didn’t get to have you then,” Mark sniffled. “Why would I get to have you now?”

“Because I want to remember, and I’m tired of having been a coward,” Grant said firmly.

Mark whimpered as Grant grabbed his chin and tipped his head back, hands coming up to grab his shoulders as Grant leaned in to crush their lips together in an inelegant but desperate kiss. He wanted to push him away, but there was also a part of him, deep in his chest, that unfolded like a blooming flower, sighing out a broken ‘finally.’ His fingers hurt from how tightly they were gripping Grant’s shoulders, but he pulled on them anyway, drawing him in until Mark could wrap his arms around his neck to keep him there, because surely he’d leave once he got the kiss out of his system.

Grant seemed to sense that, because he broke the kiss but didn’t pull away, panting against his lips. “I’m not losing you again. You’re stuck with me now. Oh my God,” he whispered, jerking backward.

Mark frowned up at him nervously, forcing himself not to reach out for him again. “Grant?” he asked, curling his hands into the fabric of his jeans.

Grant looked like he was in physical pain. “Oh my God Mark you named your parrots after your robots. How could you not _know_.”

“I was… I didn’t… Grant,” Mark began, squeezing the denim in his hands anxiously. “There was… There’s so much I blocked out. So much I’ll still probably try to. There are so many awful memories, and I—I don’t think I can cope with them.”

“What if I was by your side?” Grant asked softly, reaching out to gently pry his fingers loose from his pants. “What if I was there, like you always needed me to be?”

Mark flinched a little. “I…”

“Do you trust me?” Grant asked.

Mark stared up at him, sniffed, then whispered, “I do.”

Grant smiled at him, and there was a somewhat sad lilt to it, as if mourning what could have been even as they focused on what could be. “So I’ll help you like you need. I’ll be there like I should have been before. We’ll get through this. Together.”

“You have to promise to stop saying shit like that,” Mark choked out, even though he was smiling, even as he started crying again, and reached out to wrap his arms around Grant’s neck again.

He felt Grant smile into his ear as he murmured, “No promises,” and he couldn’t help but think that that was okay.

.-.-.-.

Some days, Bucky wanted to throw his shield into the Potomac. He should have, the moment that Sam had solemnly handed it to him, too old to carry the mantle safely anymore. He’d just been blinded by the pride he’d felt, that he was good enough to carry the shield. He hadn’t realized that Captain America’s shield came with standards.

He wondered if Steve had ever felt the weight of the shield like a sword of Damocles, or if he ever regretted picking it up. Bucky was finding himself exhausted trying to live up to everyone’s expectations of who Captain America should be. He wished Steve were there to tell him what to do.

He wished a lot of his friends were there. He’d always hated Hydra for what they’d done to him with the serum. He just hadn’t realized until now how much it would really hurt him, having to watch as his friends aged and died while he stayed as he was, frozen in time. What was worse, he hadn’t even noticed at first until Sam complained about how much catching the shield was beginning to hurt his joints. It had made him think long and hard about his friends, heart dropping into his stomach when he realized the faces of his team were no longer the ones he knew, but younger, more fit heroes. The only familiar faces had been Bruce, Wanda, Peter, and Thor. Carol came and went as she pleased, but she didn’t seem to age normally either.

Wanda had confided in him that she’d been considering retiring for a while because her magic took so much out of her these days. She’d disappeared for a few years after Tony’s funeral, but she’d come back to the compound looking hollowed-out and resolute. She’d committed to the Avengers then. Now she was tired, and she wanted to rest. She’d still train the new recruits, but she couldn’t in good conscience go into battle anymore.

Peter… Peter had retired back to just patrolling his neighborhood long ago. His powers had made him age slower, but he was still aging, and it didn’t change the fact that he had a wife, a… a family. He was happy to help if there was any scientific work they needed done, but he kept out of battle now, as much as he could.

Sometimes, when Bucky was at his loneliest, he was jealous that Steve had died in the battle with Thanos. He’d never had to watch his teammates in this century age and die. But then the jealousy was always swallowed by guilt.

Because Steve hadn’t known Tony was going to die when he snapped, and he’d desperately thrown himself at Thanos to try and buy him some time to get the stones where they needed to be. Steve had died thinking that he was going to save his teammate, and Tony had died anyway as his wife had pressed a tearful, ‘you can rest now,’ into his ear.

Bucky wondered what it said about him, that he’d sometimes wished he’d thrown himself at Thanos so that he could die too.

It was best not to dwell on that, though, he decided firmly, even though he knew that he’d probably circle back to those thoughts later, when he was lonely again. There was nothing he could do to change the past, and Steve… Steve had deserved to rest, too. He’d joked about sleeping for seventy years, but it had been clear, when they’d been in Wakanda, that he’d been emotionally exhausted. Bucky doubted he would have even been able to live through Tony’s death.

“And what can I get you today, Mr. Barnes?” the morning barista, Doreen, asked him cheerfully, making him realize that he was now at the front of the line.

“Uh,” Bucky said, and then, “Coffee,” and then, “Hhhhhot.”

Doreen stared at him, stunned, hand frozen where she’d been reaching out for a cup. “Sir?”

Bucky winced. “Um. Just a large cup of coffee to go, with room for cream and sugar. Sorry, Doreen.”

“…Of course,” Doreen said, finally grabbing a paper cup for him. Her eyes lingered on him with no small amount of genuine concern. “That’ll be two-fifty.”

Bucky handed her a five and told her to keep the change. ‘Coffee, hot,’ what a fucking asshole answer. No more getting maudlin while he was waiting for coffee anymore, especially just before the lunch rush. He took his cup of coffee and went to the counter over to the side to pour some sugar and cream into it.

As he was doing so, he heard a laugh that he hadn’t heard in… God, _years_ , over a century, when he’d slung an arm around thin shoulders and ruffled blond hair. He jerked his head toward it even as the rational part of his brain realized how impossible it was. Steve was dead. He had been for nearly fifty years. There was no way it was Steve’s laugh. It was a coincidence.

Still, seeing the man was like being punched in the gut. It wasn’t Steve. Not quite. His face was shaped a little differently. His hair was slightly darker. But there was so much of him that looked like Steve, it still took his breath away. And as he watched, a hand was pressing a piece of croissant to the lips of Steve’s doppelganger, and the man’s eyes went all soft and loving as he gently nipped it from between his companion’s fingertips.

Bucky swallowed thickly and let his gaze slide over, breath hitching when he saw the other man. He looked so much like Tony Stark. God. He really was seeing things, he thought miserably, as the Steve doppelganger leaned in to press his forehead to the Tony doppelganger’s, and they looked at each other so warmly, so sweetly. It wasn’t like the way Steve and Tony had looked at each other, all bittersweet longing and soft mourning for opportunities missed and resolute resignation. This was how Steve and Tony always should have looked at each other, all mischievous smiles and teasing pecks on the lips.

“Mr. Barnes,” someone said again.

Bucky jumped, startled, and only then seemed to realize that he’d been pouring cream into his cup the entire time. It looked like he’d emptied the entire container into it. He set the container for cream down, staring down at his overflowed cup, and sighed.

“Mr. Barnes?” Doreen repeated, clearly considering whether she needed to reach out and comfort him. “Are you alright?”

“I must just be off today,” Bucky replied lamely, because it seemed a lot better than saying, ‘I’m so lonely that I’m hallucinating my dead friends.’ He grabbed a handful of napkins to clean up, but she simply tutted at him and grabbed a rag to clean it up instead. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” she replied with a shrug. “I’ll have Tommy make you another cup.”

Bucky opened his mouth to tell her not to bother, but she was already waving Tommy over from cleaning syrup bottles, so he sighed and shrugged uncomfortably. “Thanks. Hey, uh—that couple over there, do they come here often?”

“Who?” Doreen asked, then leaned past him to peer into the coffee shop. “Grant and Mark?”

Bucky hadn’t realized he’d been hoping until he realized he was let down by the names. “Yeah,” he finally said.

“Um, I usually only see Grant, when he comes in after his runs in the morning. He comes in right after opening. Tommy, have you seen them coming in here together often?” she asked as he approached, nodding her head in their direction as subtly as she could muster.

Bucky lamented that it was not very subtle. Luckily, no one seemed to notice, too used to her loud and perky antics.

“Who, Mark and Steve?” Tommy asked, raising an eyebrow.

Bucky was glad he hadn’t taken the cup of coffee from him, because he definitely would have crushed it in his hand. “ _Mark and Steve?_ ”

“I’m pretty sure it’s Mark and Grant,” Doreen said.

“I mean—yeah? But I also, like… hear them calling each other ‘Steve’ and ‘Tony,’ like some sort of weird pet names?” Tommy argued, even though he didn’t look entirely certain about it. He scratched back of his head, frowning. “Like, it’s seriously so bizarre. I try to ignore it.”

Doreen stared at him, disbelieving, before she finally retorted, “Do they come here often or not.”

“I guess?” Tommy said after some thought. “It’s not every day, but often enough. Grant comes in and waits for Mark and they have a coffee and spilt a pastry before they leave again. It’s honestly kind of sickening—I watched Grant pop a bite of blueberry muffin into Mark’s mouth and almost threw a cleaning rag at them.”

Bucky turned his gaze back toward the couple, heart thudding painfully in his chest as he watched Grant and Mark peck each other on the lips then lean back to smile at each other again. He didn’t know what to do. Approach them? Leave and pretend like he hadn’t seen them? Tell his mandated therapist he was seeing things? He had no idea. All he knew was that he wanted to stay and soak up the way they were looking at each other, and even he knew that that was creepy. So he took his coffee from Tommy, turned, and left, deciding he’d drink it black.

.-.-.-.

“Fuck,” Bucky said, standing outside of the coffee shop for the third week in a row. St—Grant hadn’t arrived yet. It was just Mark, sitting quietly at their usual table, turning his cup in slow, anxious circles.

Steve had always waxed poetic about Tony’s nervous tics when they’d been on the run. How he missed the way Tony would sniff with emotion, how his teeth bit into his lower lip as he thought. The way the tendons in his hands flexed as he twisted cups in circles. How he looked up through his lashes when he felt safe enough to duck his head.

Bucky felt like he’d slipped into an uncanny valley. Mark looked exactly like Tony, except for that he didn’t. He didn’t have the facial hair, or the sharp cheekbones, or the ever-present exhaustion Bucky had always seen him with. He looked young, and happy, and his smiles came easier. Bucky wondered if a younger Tony Stark had ever looked like that. Then he decided he really didn’t want to know.

He hovered outside, actually considering going in and approaching him. What would he say, though? ‘Hey, you look like somebody I used to know?’ That would be creepy. He was trying really hard not to be creepy anymore, even though Peter assured him that it wasn’t his fault that his gaze was ‘mysterious and intense.’ Should he go in and ask Tony’s doppelganger about his eyes?

“Oh!” someone exclaimed, surprised, as they knocked shoulders with him.

Bucky reached out automatically to keep them from falling, because usually people just bounced off of him onto the ground, but instead found himself just awkwardly holding the man’s arm. “Uh.”

“Sorry!” Grant said hastily, shaking his arm free. “I’m late and in a hurry and—I’ll buy you coffee if you follow me inside? Sorry!”

Bucky watched him go as he rushed into the coffee shop and hurried over to collapse in the seat across from Mark and immediately begin talking. Mark looked up from beneath his lashes as he listened to him, then reached out to gently take Grant’s hand. Grant’s mouth closed abruptly, and he stared back at Mark, struck silent, before he just sort of… sagged, even as he lifted Mark’s hand to press a kiss to the back of it.

He had half a mind to follow Grant into the shop and take him up on the free coffee, maybe even sit down at the table with them and get to know them. But that was probably a bad idea. It would be unfair of him, to go into it like this. They didn’t deserve to just be his replacements for Steve and Tony. Mark and Grant were people who probably had rich lives and fun hobbies. It wouldn’t be right for him to try and make them someone else.

“I need actual therapy,” Bucky said.

“I’ll say,” someone walking past him muttered snidely.

Bucky closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Captain America was not supposed to stab people.

.-.-.-.

Sam told him that clearly being Captain America was getting to him, and he should take up a new hobby that wasn’t creeping on people. He also said he was retired and only wanted to see Bucky at their monthly brunch. Then he rushed to assure Bucky that they _were_ friends and he could come vent if he needed to, it was just a joke, but he _was_ getting concerned about him, if he kept seeing Steve and Tony in everywhere.

Bucky didn’t bother telling him it was just two people, just in the coffee shop, because even he had to admit that that… was pretty unhinged. He wondered if he was beginning to crack because the fiftieth anniversary of the Reversal was in a few short years, and he was realizing how lonely he was. Wondered if the threads he was clinging to would snap under the realization that it had been fifty years since Steve and Tony had died, and he really had nothing to show for it.

He missed Steve. And he hadn’t known Tony very well, but the things Tony had done to make the Reversal possible… he definitely respected him. He missed the friendship they might have been able to have, he figured.

Bucky looked down at the address on the postcard he’d found in his mail, then squinted up at the sign on the building. He wasn’t entirely sure why he’d gotten it. Maybe Sam had sent it to him, knowing that he needed to try something new. He probably never would have used the free ticket into a gallery before, but he was so desperate for something that wasn’t staring at the walls of his apartment and wondering if he should take up knitting instead of lurking at the coffee shop.

Although if he took up knitting, he could sit in the coffee shop and knit. He’d seen people doing that. Granted, they looked to be about seventy, but hey. He was technically older than them. He could fit in. Maybe he could even get Wanda into it.

Bucky shook his head. He was man enough to admit that he was trying to put off going into the gallery. He took a deep breath and let it back out. He’d always enjoyed seeing Steve’s art. He could definitely enjoy going into an art gallery, especially since he was getting a preview and wouldn’t have to contend with a crowd. He handed the woman at the desk his postcard with the free entry ticket and his name on it.

“James Barnes?” she asked, surprised. “Like Captain America?”

“Yeah,” Bucky answered, ready to sprint for the door.

“Wow, how unlucky to have the same last name,” she said sympathetically. “I have three Jameses in my English class alone. Although I guess it’s better than Steve or Tony!” she added when he raised his eyebrows at her. “Heck, one of my classmate’s parents even named him Iron.”

“Oh my God,” Bucky said, unsure how else to react. He’d seen the influx of children named after the Avengers after the Reversal, but never had he heard of an _Iron_.

The girl nodded, sighing. “Yeah. Luckily he owns it really well. I think if anyone could handle a name like Iron, it would be him.” She seemed to remember what she was doing and yelped, turning to tap at her computer. “So sorry! I’m sure you want to see the art. I’m not sure how to give you a receipt with this… um… I guess I’ll just write one for you,” she finally decided, printing some blank receipt paper. She paused a moment, looking at the postcard, then scribbled ‘free entrance postcard—see Kamala!’ Then she initialed it and handed it to him. “Enjoy the exhibit!”

“Thanks,” Bucky said, taking the receipt. He wondered if he should come clean about being the real Bucky Barnes, then decided against it. He kind of liked the anonymity. If he reacted weirdly, she’d just think of him as ‘that weird guy with the bun’ and not ‘Mr. Captain America, I really need you to not lurk at the customers anymore’ like Doreen did.

Although maybe he’d wave at her with his metal hand as he left. Just for fun.

Bucky ended up having to show one of the guards the receipt before he walked into the exhibit, but luckily, he just sort of snorted before he went to show Kamala how to ring it in. He hovered at the door, waiting, but the guard waved him in, saying, “You’ve got the receipt Kamala gave you, it's fine.” So in he walked.

He was totally unprepared for the exhibit he’d walked into. His heart leapt into his throat when the first thing he saw was a giant mosaic of a dripping red star on a steel-gray background on the opposite wall. He promptly choked on his next intake of breath, and he lifted his hand to try and muffle the noise, eyes darting around. But oh God, it just got even worse.

There was a painting of Iron Man’s suit flying over a cityscape. Next to it was a sketch of the original Captain America suit, each stitch carefully shaded so that it almost looked like he would touch the fabric instead of paper if he reached out to it. Then there was a painting of cracked goggles lying next to a damaged shield. A photo-realistic drawing of an arc reactor bracketed by flowers. A painting of a Wakandan sunset that shadowed a man bottle-feeding a goat. A painting of Captain America using his shield to propel Iron Man’s repulsor blasts at aliens. Sketches of familiar hands, smiles, eyes. A pastel drawing of a gauntleted hand reaching out for a metal one.

Bucky felt as if he’d been punched in the stomach. His blood roared in his ears. He didn’t know where to look to gain respite. Everywhere he turned, there was Steve, or Tony, or him, or pairs of them or all of them and he sucked in a wet breath because he hadn’t—he’d never gotten to—they’d died and he was still here and he was all alone and—

“I want this one,” a familiar voice was saying.

Bucky focused on it, wanting to feel grounded, tethered to something that wasn’t hopes-wishes-dreams.

“You want every painting of the Winter Soldier that I do,” another voice replied, but it was full of good humor.

“But I want this one especially,” the first voice said, carefully neutral, in a ‘we’ve talked about this before’ way. “Can I have this?”

“I’m getting the feeling you just never want me to make money again.”

Bucky turned, forcing himself to take slow, deep breaths. His tunneling vision began to ease, and he was finally able to see who was talking. He could only see their backs, but it… it looked familiar. Those crossed arms and wide shoulders of a man exasperated but still about to give in with fondness. The more compact build of the smaller man, head tipped, and hip cocked to the side, saucy and wheedling all at once.

Bucky found himself moving before he could think about it, even though it felt like he was walking through water.

“What if I said you could have any other painting except this one?” the blond man asked, amused.

“You’re being so cruel to me,” the smaller man complained. It sounded like he was pouting. “If you’re not careful, I’ll say the Winter Soldier is my favorite.”

“Oh no,” the blond said, laughter in his tone.

The smaller man sniffed. “If you don’t let me have it, I’ll say something really mean!”

“I’m shaking in my boots, sweetheart.”

The smaller man turned, puffing out a frustrated breath as he put his hands on his hips. “Well! I think you’re the third best Captain America!”

Bucky couldn’t help the noise that was punched out of him. “What?”

The smaller man jerked toward him, startled, then yelped and hid behind the blond.

“Bucky,” the blond said, surprised, as if he didn’t quite believe he was actually seeing him.

Bucky swallowed thickly, because of course it was Grant and Mark. Of course it was. Then he looked past Grant to see the art piece they’d been talking about. He couldn’t help a pained keen when he saw it, a charcoal sketch of himself bent over a spiral notebook. He was reaching for it before he knew what he was doing, a sob wrenching out of his throat.

Grant grabbed his arm, stopping him. “I don’t think that the guards would take very kindly to you taking one of my pieces before the show even started,” he said apologetically. It was obvious he hadn’t actually wanted to stop him, but he didn’t really know what else to do.

Bucky turned to look at him, feeling absolutely hollowed out, and he had to swallow thickly when he saw that Mark was still cowering behind Grant. “I’m sorry,” he croaked. He wasn’t sure what he was sorry for, exactly, but he looked so scared. Maybe he should leave. He should. He should definitely leave. Except… “You called me Bucky,” he said roughly.

Grant took a step back, startled. Then he squared his shoulders, nodding. “I did.”

Bucky wanted to laugh, because that was so Steve, not backing down even in the face of his own discomfort. He looked over Grant’s shoulder to Mark, who was staring up at him with his big, dark eyes. “Am I your favorite Captain America, then?”

“No, it’s Sam Wilson,” Mark answered immediately, and then gasped and clapped his hands over his mouth.

Bucky stared at him, stunned, unsure whether he wanted to laugh or if he was still overwhelmed with the desire to cry. He decided to laugh, because even Grant looked offended.

Both Mark and Grant were kind enough to help ease him to the ground when his laughs began morphing into sobs.

It felt good, though, having them cling to him, even if they didn’t exactly know what was going on.

.-.-.-.

“Oh,” Doreen said, surprised. “You’re together this time.”

“Together?” Mark asked, brows furrowing together in confusion.

“This time?” Grant added, frowning.

Bucky hummed, considering if he should just sprint out the door. Finally, though, he just shrugged. “Yes.”

“This time?” Grant repeated.

“Whaaaat,” Doreen replied, grabbing for one of the large cups and ringing up a large black coffee with room. “Sometimes I see people! And they’re not always together! Things happen. People exist! Listen. I don’t appreciate you coming at me like this. Are you a cop?”

Grant gaped at her, unsure what to address first.

“Holy shit,” Mark said. Then he pointed into the pastry case. “I would like that slice of cake please. Bucky is buying it for me because I’m adorable.”

“That’s not weird,” Doreen answered, in a way that made it very clear that it was definitely weird that Captain America was buying a slice of cake for half of a couple. She opened the pastry case and tapped a slice of cake with the tongs. “This one?”

“The one to the left of that one,” Mark said, and then, “Sorry, my left, your right. Yesss lemon chiffon.”

Mark made grabby hands until she rolled her eyes and set the plate in his hands. He took his slice of lemon chiffon to his usual table without looking back, muttering to himself. Then he bent over his plate, as if to guard his cake from interlopers.

“…Is that,” Bucky began.

“It’s normal,” Grant sighed, lifting a hand to rub his eyes. “He loves fruity sweets. Sometimes when I bring him a fruit tart, I think he loves the pastry more than me.”

“He does,” Doreen told him flatly. “I watched this man once inhale a banana bread muffin in two bites. Our banana bread muffins aren’t even that good. If it came down to you and a strawberry parfait, he’d eat the parfait as you bled out.”

Grant opened his mouth, then closed it, looking concerned. Finally, he just muttered, “I’ll take a small iced mocha.”

Mark was half-finished with his cake by the time they reached the table, and he gave them both very suspicious looks until he was certain they would not snatch it from him. When he realized this, he uncurled from over the plate, smiling at Bucky pleasantly. “So! That sketch is still mine by the way. You can’t have it. I get first dibs.”

“You don’t,” Grant answered immediately. “You actually, really don’t, and if you don’t believe me, Natalie will be very stern when she tells you so herself.”

“You’ll protect me,” Mark said with the confidence of a man who had seen it happen before.

“Yeah, but I won’t like it,” Grant grumbled, leaning his chin on his hand.

Bucky got the feeling that Natalie was a pistol. He also got the feeling that if he met her, she’d have beautiful red hair and green eyes, with a face that looked like someone he remembered, but different enough that it gave him pause. Part of him actually did want to meet her, but another part wanted him to keep the lock tight on that old hurt.

So instead he looked at Mark, at those eyes looking up at him guilelessly instead of full of betrayal like they had at the bunker, and he asked, “St—Grant said that you always wanted… pictures of the Winter Soldier.” He looked down into his coffee, watching as a bubble latched onto the edge of the cup and then popped. He felt sort of like that bubble, sometimes, clinging to something only to eventually fall apart into nothingness. He looked back up at Mark, frowning. “Why do you want pictures of me? After what I did. The pain I caused you.” He paused, then hesitantly repeated, “You?”

Grant winced, but Mark, to his credit, simply cut another bite of cake and stuck it into his mouth, considering how to answer. Bucky waited, wondering why he didn’t feel as nervous as he thought he probably should. Maybe it was because Mark’s expressions showed a distinct lack of bone-deep terror that he desperately tried to hide. Tony… Tony had always looked at him with an expression that said, ‘you killed my parents for Hydra so how can I be certain you aren’t here to finish the job.’ He hadn’t blamed Tony for it at all, of course. Until they’d gotten all of Hydra’s trigger words out of his head, he’d sort of been afraid that he’d do it, too.

Finally, Mark set his fork down, and Grant looked so unsettled by it that Bucky knew that he’d be getting his answer, for better or for worse. Mark folded his hands in his lap and turned to face him. “I’m not Tony. I’m Mark. Everything that happened to Tony Stark? It happened to someone else. I just had a front row seat to it happening. I was removed from the situation. So I could step back and see that what happened to you, it… it wasn’t really your fault. I don’t blame myself—Tony—for reacting the way I… Look, this is really hard to explain,” he sighed, shoulders sagging. “I don’t… I’m just going to talk about me from that time as Tony. Is that okay?”

Bucky blinked at him in surprise. “I—yeah? Why wouldn’t it be. To—Mark, I have no idea how this works, and I doubt I would understand any explanation for it. Tell it in whatever way is easiest for you.”

Mark looked relieved. “Okay. Tony—Tony was hurt. When he learned what you’d done. And of course he was! He’d thought his parents had died in a car accident, and it turned out they hadn’t, so that was shocking. The thing is… he was more hurt that Steve didn’t tell him about it,” he added, glancing at Grant with eyes full of regret for bringing it up.

Grant winced again, almost looking like he’d rather get up and leave than listen, but finally he settled again, shoulders straightening, and gave a firm nod. “Right. It makes sense.”

“So,” Mark added hurriedly, before he tried to apologize again. “So I know that Tony—I—was hurt by that. Of course I do. But… That was years ago. For everybody. And all I could think of when I had that first dream about blowing your arm off was… was the look of terror on your face as Tony tried to kill you,” he whispered, and then bit his bottom lip and ducked his head in shame. “I had the benefit of being removed from the situation. When I dreamt it happening, it felt so real, but when I woke up, it had happened to someone else.

“And I—I journal. Because my therapist suggested it. So I write down everything I can remember about the dream. And whenever I go back to those entries… it always has something about how scared you were. Your face. The way you braced for impact. How you seemed stuck between the urge to flee and the urge to just let it happen, like you deserved it.” He sniffed softly and lifted his head again, looking up at him with red-rimmed eyes. “It’s not that I want every single picture of you that Grant does. It’s that I want every picture of you where you’re not obviously scared or in pain. Tony’s pain is not my pain, so his guilt should not be my guilt, but I… I want to see you happy. After everything that’s happened to you.”

Bucky stared at him, stunned. “So you buy art where I… look happy?”

“Or just… not sad,” Mark admitted, lifting his hands to begin turning his plate in careful circles, like he did with his coffee cup when he was waiting for Grant. “I remember the way you and Steve looked at each other before we… everyone lost so much, even with me reversing Thanos’s snap. And then you… Steve was gone, and you were all alone. I—Tony remembered how… depressed Steve was when he thought you were dead, how hopeful he was when he learned that you weren’t. I’d never wish that on anyone. I don’t think Tony would have, either.”

Bucky leaned back in his seat, trying to take it all in.

Losing Steve in the battle with Thanos had felt like someone had reached into his chest and crushed his heart in their fist. Bucky had sort of known, in an abstract way, that when Steve had looked at Tony and said, “I’ll buy you some time,” that Steve didn’t expect Thanos to have the same mercy to just knock him out again. Steve had promised to buy Tony some time, knowing he would die, and hoping it would be enough—hoping that Tony would live. And then Bucky had had to watch Tony die, knowing that Steve had died hoping that he’d save Tony’s life and failing. Knowing that he'd never truly be able to make amends with him, for the way that he’d hurt him. Both of them had died, leaving him with so many loose ends.

But Mark… Mark was giving him sympathy. Mark, who had been Tony, who didn’t look up at him with fear, who was sympathetic to him, who apparently bought art that depicted him not being sad… didn’t hold anything against him.

Bucky would probably need more time to come to terms with this. More time to panic and doubt and, in all honesty, probably cry, because he was starting to realize that even if Grant and Mark _were_ Steve and Tony, they were not the Steve and Tony he knew—and maybe that was for the better, because he hadn’t been the Bucky that Steve had grown up with, nor the Sergeant Barnes that Tony had been told stories about. But that was for him to do in private, not here in a crowded coffee shop, in front of two people who only new him in their pasts.

So instead he said, “So, I’m your second favorite Captain America, huh?”

“You stab people,” Mark replied, perking up a little. “Steve and Sam could have stood to stab some people.”

“Mark,” Grant gasped, looking simultaneously mortified and amused.

Mark scowled at him. “All I’m saying is, if you’d stabbed some of your enemies, maybe they wouldn’t have given you so much trouble later on,” he reasoned, in a tone that said ‘we’ve had this argument before and I am still right.’ Then he looked back at Bucky. “But Sam still ekes out a win over you because he looked better in the uniform.”

“I don’t have the skin tone to pull off blue,” Bucky replied seriously, making sure to do it with a straight face because Grant looked about ready to combust.

Grant scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Oh, so not only am I an idiot for not using a knife, I’m also ugly. Thanks a lot.”

“Maybe you’d look sexier in blue if you had a knife,” Mark reasoned.

Bucky snorted his coffee out his nose with how scandalized Grant looked, even though he sort of wanted to take one of the knives hidden on his person and put it in his hand, because Grant had also looked sort of considering as well.

.-.-.-.

Bucky came back to the gallery after it opened. There was a crowd, but he found himself not really minding it. He could listen to people gush about the artwork, which honestly took a little bit of the pressure off of him when he got overwhelmed with some of the scenes depicted in them. Somehow, listening to people talking about brushstrokes and art mediums and ‘the creator’s headspace’ made it easier to take in a bloody battlefield, or a somber death scene.

There was a woman with curly red hair and green eyes there who looked familiar, just like he’d expected. The shape of her face was different. She held herself less rigidly than he remembered. “I’d like to buy that,” he told her, pointing at the charcoal sketch, and her eyes lit up as she happily tapped at her tablet.

He bought a few other pieces, too, telling himself that the compound could use some art to liven it up. There was a painting of the Red Witch flinging cars at a group who called themselves the Wrecking Crew, a lovely watercolor of Sam as Captain America, an abstract of black webs over a blue and red background, and a sketch of an ax with electricity crackling over it. He thought the others might like it. Maybe he could commission Ste—Grant for some art of the current Avengers.

Maybe he could get Grant to do artwork of the new superheroes they took on, too.

Bucky stayed until well into the night, after the crowds had thinned to just a few people lingering with the red-haired woman to make purchases. He was considering a watercolor of a large Ant-Man-shaped shadow with a bright Wasp-shaped spot in the middle of it when he heard a sharp, shocked gasp.

“Grant! Someone bought my drawing!” Mark wailed.

“Mark, I’m gonna say this one more time—you can’t claim every piece of art I do, and Natalie is this close to kicking us both out in front of a bus.”

Bucky was glad he’d finished his glass of champagne because he was pretty sure he would have snorted the drink up his nose like he had with his coffee last week. He turned, unable to keep the smile off his face when he saw Mark tugging on Grant’s arm pleadingly and pointing at the sketch.

“I’ll draw another one for you,” Grant offered.

Mark’s eyes were big and sad as he looked back at the drawing. “…But it won’t be the same…”

“I’m the artist. It will literally be the same,” Grant began, amused.

“I suppose I could be convinced to part with it,” Bucky cut in, and bit his bottom lip to bite back a laugh when Mark yelped and hid behind Grant again, like he had before.

They turned, and Mark scowled, leaning around Grant to hiss, “Don’t _do_ that.”

“It’s hard to remember to make noise,” Bucky replied with a shrug. “Wanda and Peter can always sense me coming, and Sam says he’s too tired to jump anymore.”

“I am high-strung and sensitive,” Mark informed him sternly. “And I may not have a heart problem anymore, but I do have a parrot problem!”

Bucky stared at him for a long moment, trying to figure out if it was a euphemism. There were so many of those, these days. Finally, at a loss, he managed to grunt, “Huh?”

Grant shrugged. “It’s true. The parrots being quiet is a sign of mischief.”

“Parrots?” Bucky asked, and part of him didn’t believe it was true.

Mark trotted over, though, pulling out his phone and tapping at it until he’d opened up the photos so he could show him. “I have one African Gray Parrot and two macaws,” he said, with the same level of pride as someone showing him pictures of his children.

“I love them,” Bucky decided when he saw the gray one hanging upside-down from Mark’s finger in one of the pictures, looking happy as a clam.

“They’re assholes,” Grant tried to tell him.

Mark turned his head to glare at him. “I _told_ you not to leave your sketchbook out where Butterfingers could get to it. You know they like tearing paper.”

“They look happy,” Bucky said as Mark swiped to show him a picture of a red bird giving a stuffed pepper a threat display. “Not a fan of peppers?”

“She doesn’t like ginger and I put a lot in my rice mixture that night,” Mark admitted. “I was feeling myself.”

“I’ll say,” Grant said, his lips finally curled into a smile. “He breathed me out of the apartment.”

Mark sniffed at him, disgruntled. “It’s not my fault you don’t like ginger.”

“Well it’s not my fault you don’t like cilantro,” Grant replied, and Mark cried out a hurt, ‘soapy!’ as he looked up at him.

“I don’t like either of those things,” Bucky offered, and then both jerked to stare at him in horror.

Finally, though, Mark’s expression went thoughtful, and he looked up at him wonderingly as he asked, “How do you feel about hummus?”

“What the fuck is hummus,” Bucky asked, and they both beamed at him.

.-.-.-.

“Bucky Barnes!” Scott gasped.

“Oh my God,” Bucky said, and seriously considered pitching himself off the roof.

Scott had retired from the Avengers years ago. He still showed up every once in a while, though, and was still very… fanboy-ish. Bucky had hoped that he’d grow(?) out of it, but Scott had been, miraculously, unselfconscious with his absolute delight at seeing him. One time, Scott had squeezed his biceps. It had been weird.

And now Scott was doing it again. Scott was grabbing his arms and squeezing his biceps. He was a lot frailer now, Bucky realized. Just like Sam was. Just like a lot of the people he knew.

Eventually, Hope shuffled Scott away with the fib that he needed to take care of the grill.

“You okay?” Grant asked him in concern. “You look like you swallowed a lemon. We thought it’d be funny.”

“I just wanted you to come and eat Mr. Lang’s hummus, because you hate flavor and so also probably hate joy and love,” Mark corrected. “And Mr. Lang’s hummus is basically… all of that.”

Bucky looked between the two of them. Mark looked very pleased with himself. Grant sort of looked like he didn’t know whether he should continue expressing concern, scold Mark because not everyone could like ginger, or laugh helplessly. Finally, though, he said, “I still don’t know what hummus is.”

With that, Grant decided on laughing.

Mark gave Grant a very disparaging look (apparently he was very serious about feeding Bucky this ‘hummus’ thing) and then grabbed Bucky’s arm and dragged him over to the table, chirping greetings to the other building inhabitants even as he grabbed a plate and began filling it with vegetables and chips and what looked like some sort of gray-beige paste. Bucky examined it dubiously. It looked a lot like what Hydra had fed him, all those years ago.

“Enjoy!” Mark ordered cheerfully.

“This is hummus?” Bucky asked, raising an eyebrow, and grabbed a celery stick to push the paste around a little. It had a surprising amount of give. Examining it closer, he saw it was wetter than he’d first believed. “This still doesn’t explain what hummus is.” He scooped some up on the end of the celery, frowning at it severely, then decided not to prolong his suffering and shoved it in his mouth.

…It just tasted like garlic, lemon, and salt. It had kind of a gritty texture, but he found he didn’t dislike that, necessarily. He used a tortilla chip to scoop up some more and thought they went well together.

“’s good,” Bucky said, shoveling more into his mouth.

Mark looked dismayed. “You like it?”

Bucky blinked at him. “Was I not supposed to?”

Grant started laughing even harder.

“But it’s so plain! It just tastes like lemon and garlic!” Mark exclaimed.

Bucky blinked at him again. “I like lemon and garlic.”

“Next you’ll be telling me that you don’t like curry,” Mark scoffed.

Bucky seriously considered his answer before finally admitting, “I don’t?”

“I have never been more betrayed in my life,” Mark informed him sternly as Grant wheezed and collapsed to his knees. “I can’t believe this. You’re both awful. I hate you. How dare you.”

“Mark,” Grant wheezed.

Mark sniffed and turned on his heel to stalk from the roof party. “The audacity!”

“The serum makes spice hurt my face,” Bucky called after him.

Grant made a concerning noise and just collapsed where he was, shaking with laughter. Bucky looked down at him. Grant laughed so freely, he thought, frowning. Steve… Steve hadn’t, not really. If he wasn’t bent over, trying to ease his creaky lungs, he was holding himself carefully, too afraid to hurt someone with an ill-aimed slap on the back, or squeezing too hard with an arm around the shoulder. Grant didn’t have to worry about any of that.

Maybe it was better that Steve and Tony had died, Bucky couldn’t help but think. Now Grant and Mark were here, and neither of them had to live with the things that had caused them problems before. Grant was the artist that Steve had always wanted to be, and Mark didn’t have the weight of the world on his shoulders like Tony had.

They were happier now, as they were, and Bucky had no right to come into their lives and make them relive their old hurts—their old lives that they’d obviously moved on from. He shouldn’t be bothering them. He should be letting them go. He’d always wanted one last moment with them, to apologize, to assure them he’d be alright, and he’d had that. Now he was just being greedy. It was time to let them go.

He looked at Grant, trying to drink him in one last time, and asked, “Do you think Scott would give me the recipe for this hummus?”

Grant snorted. “I think he might actually launch himself into orbit if you asked.”

“If he’s still holding onto my biceps, he’ll be fine,” Bucky deadpanned, and Grant started laughing again.

.-.-.-.

Grant opened the door when he heard shuffling behind it, coffee cup in hand. He found Mr. Lang leaving a package wrapped in brown paper. “Mr. Lang,” he said. “You know that both your wife and my boyfriend get upset by this.”

“It’s a small package,” Mr. Lang cut in hastily, skittering back down the hall. “I didn’t even strain myself. Maybe I had some help! You don’t know!”

Grant watched him go, silent. He actually didn’t care whether Mr. Lang brought packages to them or not. He knew that Mr. Lang was not actually in any danger—Grant had legit seen a giant ant helping him carry the grill up to the roof for the monthly cookout. Instead, he turned, holding the door open as he called out, “Mark, you have a package.”

“Aw yissss, my exfoliator,” Mark hissed, rushing over from supervising Dummy and the smoothie cup. “Get me some pomegranate and French clay and—what,” he said, stumbling to a stop when he saw the package, square and thin like he used to receive before he started dating Grant. “I don’t… what? I haven’t bought any art in months…” He paused, then looked up at Grant, disgruntled. “Did Mr. Lang carry this up?”

“One of his ants did,” Grant lied, because it was just a small package, and Mr. Lang had shown more energy fleeing down the hall than he probably had by carrying the package up.

“Oh, well,” Mark said, fight draining out of him. He picked up the package and frowned at it thoughtfully. “Hmm. I wonder what this could be. Natalie threatened to strangle me with her thighs if I pestered her to try and be my art dealer again. Did _you_ get me something?” he asked, looking up at Grant.

Grant frowned as he ushered him out of the doorway so he could shut the door. “No.”

Mark frowned at the package for a little longer, then brightened. “What if I have a secret admirer!”

“What if you do,” Grant asked flatly.

Mark turned to blink up at him with wide, innocent eyes. “I’d have to turn them down, of course,” he said demurely, lifting his hand to hide his amused smile. “I have a boyfriend, after all.”

“That’s what I thought,” Grant grumbled, then gave up and grinned, shaking his head. He reached out to give Mark’s ass a squeeze as he went by, listening to him yelp and laughing a little when the three parrots immediately copied the noise.

Mark shot him a quick glare, but there was no heat behind it. “Not in front of the children!”

“Yeah, they look mighty offended,” Grant agreed with a shrug as Butterfingers and You promptly ignored them when no more funny noises were forthcoming.

“Butt,” Mark muttered, reaching out to carefully begin unwrapping the package. “I hope my secret admirer is super pretty so I can leave with them and you can live a lonely life. You won’t have any joy or love because I’m taking my parrots with me. I hope they’re rich and can afford to keep me in the lap of luxury but even if they can’t, I’ll accept their earnest affection—”

“Those are mighty bold words, considering how much I let you boss me around,” Grant said when Mark went silent, opening the fridge to paw around for the milk he kept in the back so that his boyfriend had no chance of accidentally consuming it. “I’m very earnest in my affection, so I doubt anyone will ever be able to—”

“Grant,” Mark whispered.

“—compare to—” Grant cut himself off abruptly and turned, concerned. “What? What is it?”

Mark stared down at the picture, paper only halfway off, then turned, looking so goddamn mournful that Grant almost leapt the center island to get to him. Finally, he turned, holding it up.

Grant swallowed thickly when he saw the familiar sketch, the charcoal one of Bucky curled over a notebook. The one that Bucky had bought. “Oh,” he couldn’t help but breathe, one hand reaching out to brace against the counter. “Oh.”

“He left a note,” Mark croaked, other hand hanging down at his side, the paper clutched in tight fingers.

Grant carefully circled the island so he could approach him, because even though Mark might technically be a less-haunted version of Tony, he still got very skittish, sometimes even had flashbacks to moments where Tony had been in terror. Luckily, though, it seemed like he was too confused to let his sadness consume him. Still, he was careful, gently taking Mark’s hand and slowly uncurling his fingers so that he could pull the note out of them.

_I know you enjoyed this piece, so I think you should have it, knowing that you like art where I’m not depicted as sad. Please know that seeing you two, alive and happy, has eased some of my feelings of hurt. It made me realize that I don’t actually need this, or at least, not like I thought I did. I’m not sad anymore, Mark. I hope you and Grant have the happily ever after that you always deserved._

_Sincerely, Bucky_

_P.S.—Thanks for letting me pet your parrots. Which is simultaneously the weirdest and most pleasant thing I’ve ever written._

Grant stared at the note for several minutes before lifting his head to look at Mark.

“I didn’t mean to make him think he had to give this to me,” Mark whispered, looking guilty. “And he—he _bought_ it. So it should be his. I—was I too selfish?”

“No,” Grant answered immediately, because he might not know Bucky as well now as he had all those years ago, but he knew in his bones that Bucky hadn’t given it to Mark because he’d felt pressured into it. He looked at the note again, then looked at Mark, grim-faced. “I can’t believe I’m going to punch Captain America in the face.”

Mark nodded, forlorn, then choked on a gasp and jerked his head back up to gape at him. “What?”

“That fuckin’ asshole, popping into our lives and then popping back out,” Grant snapped, and the note crumpled in his fist as he clenched it. “I’m gonna kick his ass!”

“Grant,” Mark wheezed. “Don’t get into a fight with Captain America. What’ll that look like? ‘Famous Avengers Artist Gets Stabbed By Captain America?’ Oh my God. I’ll perish from humiliation.”

Grant considered this. Yes, Bucky was more well-armed than either he or Sam had been. On the other hand… he was dedicated to his fist meeting Bucky’s face. “I’m gonna fight him,” he repeated, because it felt right.

“Natalie help Grant says he’s going to try and kick Captain America’s ass,” Mark said, drawing hanging from one hand and phone in the other. “No I don’t think Captain America deserves it but Grant is getting all self-righteous and you know how he gets when this happens please do something!”

Grant snatched his phone from him and said, “Gather bail money because I’m about to punch a senior citizen,” and hung up on her startled squawk as Mark wailed at him in despair.

.-.-.-.

The Avengers were fighting aliens outside the shop.

“This is literally the best thing that has ever happened to me,” Billy whispered, delighted, as what looked like warrior rats stormed past the windows with plasma-based weapons.

“Fucking get down or I’m firing you,” Mark hissed, grabbing him and yanking him behind the counter.

Billy scowled at him. “Oh, come on! We’ve got a front row view!”

Mark gaped at him, appalled. “They are snatching up every human they see and storing them somewhere, Billy.” He pulled open his junk drawer and rifled through it.

“Yeah, but this way we can coordinate with other people, because they say it’s clear at the edge of Queens, but—” Billy began to argue, voice trailing off as he watched Mark pull out a dusty selfie-stick, considering it, before handing it over to him. “—it’s packed in… You… you just have a selfie-stick lying around in here?”

“Sometimes the customers with the classic cars liking taking selfies with me but they like getting the whole car in the background. Don’t judge,” Mark added sharply as he helped him get his phone set up. “Where? It’s packed _where?_ ”

Billy’s face went tight for a moment, and he appeared as if he regretted mentioning anything. Finally, though, he quietly answered, “Brooklyn,”

Mark stared at him, shocked silently, then turned and leaned back against the counter, squeezing his eyes closed. He sucked in a shaky breath and let it back out slowly, then peeled his eyes open and pulled out his phone with shaking fingers to dial Grant. It went straight to voicemail, so he called again, and this time it rang, but it still went to voicemail. He tried a few more times, then he desperately tried to call Natalie, but it went rang through to voicemail too.

“Mark,” Billy said, reaching out to grab one of his shoulders and squeeze. “Mark, they’re probably fine. Reception is spotty right now.”

“St—” Mark tried, phone slipping through his trembling fingers. “St—”

“It took me six tries to get Twitter to refresh and get that info on Brooklyn,” Billy assured him. “The phone lines are probably messed up too.”

Mark began to curl up tighter, breath coming in short, painful wheezes, because he couldn’t contact Grant. He couldn’t hear his voice and know he was okay. There were aliens outside and he was trapped and helpless and he couldn’t contact his boyfriend and he didn’t know where he was where was the phone Grant had given him he’d been given a phone Steve had given him a phone to call him when he needed him and he needed Steve where was—

There was a shatter of glass as the garage doors were smashed, and Mark jerked, mouth opening in a silent scream, though he’d never be certain if it was because of the current aliens or if it was because he was seeing a giant spaceship exploding in front of him to the thought ‘we’re not prepared.’

“Fuck,” Billy hissed, dropping the stick and his phone to try and pull them both further under the counter. “Mark come on. _Fucking work with me_.”

Mark jolted, uselessly shoving his foot out to try and help push him back into the desk space as Billy pulled him. And they probably would have made it.

Except then he heard the shrieks of his parrots, and he remembered that he’d left them in the garage while he’d come in to check one of the files before he did some work, and he had no idea what the aliens would do to them.

“They’re fucking birds!” Billy exclaimed helplessly, trying to pull him back, but Mark kept moving, throwing the door to the garage open and rushing inside.

One of the aliens was shaking one of the macaws a fucking maraca. Dummy was screaming and scratching and pecking at it, but couldn’t get through the alien’s coarse fur or armor. Mark had no idea why they were shaking his parrot and cared even less, looking around the garage frantically for something to use as a weapon.

_Fondue fork_ , his mind supplied, and he didn’t have one of those, but he did have a tire iron. And an air compressor. And an idea.

“Dummy,” Mark barked, and the parrot looked at him before letting out a screech and flapping up to the rafters.

The aliens looked at him, and he had one moment to think, _Maybe that was a bad idea_ , before he let loose the hose to the air compressor. It shot the tire iron with the high-pitched sound of metal cutting through air, and then it imbedded in one of that rats’ heads. It dropped like a sack of potatoes, blood spurting out around the iron, and its dead hands went lax, allowing the macaw—You, it looked like—to escape to the rafters with Dummy.

“Oh, that was definitely a bad idea,” Mark breathed when the alien’s partner whipped around, lifting its gun to point at him. He took a step back to run, but he had no idea where to. He’d seen a plasma blast just… disintegrate a cab outside before he’d been yanked to the ground. He braced himself, shivering, hands gripping into fists.

Then the car lift nearest the alien collapsed on one side, and the SUV tipped off directly on top of it. The alien tried to turn its gun on the car instead, but could only manage to partially hit it. The car landed on top of it.

Mark stared at the scene, stunned.

“…Well,” Billy said awkwardly, rubbing the back of his head as he backed away from the lift’s controls. “That’s definitely not gonna draw their attention.”

“We need to move,” Mark decided. “We need to get out of here. You guys,” he added, barking up at the rafters, where he could see the three parrots cowering together in the corner. “Stay here until I come back for you!”

“They’re fucking birds,” Billy muttered mulishly, but pointed at Butterfingers threateningly when she appeared like she’d swoop down and land on Mark. “Stay there!”

Mark led the way out of the shop, even though he was unsure of where to go. He wanted to go find Grant, in Brooklyn, but he knew that they’d never make it, and even if they did, Grant would be furious. Home? He could go home. That was the second place Grant would look after the garage, after all. But would they make it? Should they just settle for the nearest intact building? He felt so helpless. He wished he had a suit.

“What are you doing here?!” someone snapped, and Mark yelped as he was lifted up off the ground.

He flailed uselessly and yelped again when he was deposited back on the sidewalk beside Billy, sandwiched between a building and—a man in a red, white, and blue suit. He gaped up at Bucky’s back, stunned. “Bucky?”

“You call him ‘Bucky?!’” Billy squeaked incredulously.

Mark frowned at him, confused. “It’s his name.”

“Could you both just pipe down,” Bucky snapped, then lifted his hand to press at the comm on his ear, trying to concentrate on it. “Yeah, two civilians in my area, looks like they did pretty well protecting themselves, though. Yeah. Yeah. Thanks, Carol, I owe you one.” Then he turned, fixing them both with a sharp glare. “Stay behind me. Captain Marvel is coming to get you and take you to safety.”

“Oh my God Captain Marvel,” Billy breathed.

Mark couldn’t help a smug look. “Oh, so the Avengers aren’t so bad after all, huh?”

“You are both causing me actual physical pain,” Bucky told them, and to be fair, he _was_ grimacing as he glanced at them between repelling plasma blasts with the shield. “Please just shut up and stay here.”

Billy raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Do you even know who you’re talking to?”

“Don’t be rude,” Bucky replied. “You’re talking to Mark’s second favorite Captain America.”

Billy whipped around to give Mark an accusing look. “You said that you liked that he had guns,” he exclaimed, offended.

Mark scowled back at him. “I told you that I liked that he had weapons, not just guns. And I like that he stabs people. But Sam Wilson still looked better in blue!”

“You’re going to keep this guy as second-favorite even after he legit just saved both of our lives,” Billy asked, incredulity growing by the minute.

Mark crossed his arms, unwilling to back down, especially because the kid constantly made fun of his Iron Man coffee maker. “The blue washes him out! And Sam Wilson could fly!”

“Oh my God,” Bucky muttered.

Billy stared at Mark, so stunned he couldn’t speak, but regained his voice quickly. “So he saves your life, but he looks shitty in blue.”

“Well!” Mark exclaimed, throwing his hands up in frustration. “It’s not my fault that some people can pull off looking like the flag threw up on them and some can’t!”

“I hate you, like, so much,” Billy said, just before Captain Marvel arrived to take them to safety.

Bucky knocked shoulders with her. “Will you come back for his parrots?”

  
“Will I come back for his _what_ ,” she asked, bewildered.

“They’ll be fine,” Mark hurried to assure her.

Carol stared down at him, eyes wide. “That wasn’t a euphemism?”

Mark opened his mouth, then closed it again. “Um. I don’t… understand how a parrot could be sexy…”

Billy nodded grimly in agreement. “You can’t make a euphemism about a parrot.”

“I fucking hate it here on Earth I never know what’s going on,” Carol complained, and then hooked her arm around each of their waists. “Come on. Off to safety we go.”

A plasma blast disintegrated the wall they’d been standing in front of as soon as Carol cleared the roof. Bucky rolled away in one swift movement and threw the shield as hard as he could, ping-ponging the shield off of the aliens’ weapons and shooting at them when they were disarmed.

“I may vomit,” Mark admitted, because for a moment he’d looked at Bucky throwing the shield and really thought _‘It’s Steve,’_ and he honestly just wanted to go home and sleep for three years.

“That’s not uncommon with the flying and all,” Carol assured him. “Don’t get any on me.”

Mark managed to vomit on an alien instead. Billy high-fived him.

.-.-.-.

The day was saved by… cats.

“This is so fucked up, I’m just going to hibernate until I die,” Mark said, resisting the urge to press his palms against his eyes so the pressure made him see starbursts. That would be very rude to his hands’ current occupant.

Apparently, the rat-like aliens had only one people they considered to be their true enemies—a civilization of tiny purple kittens (seriously, like, one fit in Mark’s palms) who had equally advanced weapons and a hatred for rudeness. The Avengers had been pushing the rat-aliens back, slowly but surely, and then all of the sudden the rats had tried to scatter back to their ship… and then the kittens’ ship had landed next to it and they’d come darting out, livid that the aliens thought they could escape after snubbing their ambassadors, if “horribly maimed” was synonymous with “snubbed.”

Luckily, the kittens found human beings to be just as adorable as the humans found them. Mark was actually, literally holding one of the alien kittens in his palms. It was lilac and he was going to cry.

“Your birds are magnificent,” the kitten squeaked. “I have never seen a red bird before. The gray one also looks trustworthy.”

“I’m going to cry,” Mark told it.

“That is alright. We are aware of our affect on humans,” the kitten squeaked. “Our Mauve Squad infiltrated Earth years ago and took careful note of it. The chemical composition of your tears does not damage us.”

“Oh fuck,” Mark choked out, and wondered if blubbering in front of the Avengers would be as embarrassing as it sounded in his head.

Then he heard a familiar, frantic voice calling out, “Mark? Mark! Is Mark Kim here, they told me Mark Kim was—”

“Grant I’m holding a kitten and it’s purple and it likes my parrots,” Mark sobbed.

A moment later, he felt hands gripping his shoulders tight, easing him back against a solid chest. “Oh my God, Mark, I thought I’d lost you again,” Grant whispered, pulling him in tight. “Your garage was in shambles and I couldn’t find you. Oh God. I thought you were dead.”

“It’s so tiny,” Mark whimpered, turning to show him the kitten.

“Greetings,” the kitten squeaked at Grant, and then looked back at Mark. “You look to be in some emotional turmoil, and I am uninterested in that. You may put me down now.”

“Okay,” Mark sniffled, and bent down to carefully set the kitten on its paws. It began marching away in the way only a very young kitten could, tail pointing straight up and paws going everywhere but in a straight line. “Oh my God.”

“Oh my God,” Grant agreed, but it appeared like he was trying not to laugh instead of cry. Well, for a minute, anyway—then he went back to looking close to tears. “Mark, the garage is just—I thought you were—I was so scared—”

Mark turned, hiding his face in Grant’s chest. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” Grant said, but his grip on him was very tight. “I just thought—oh honey, you don’t want to know what I thought. I felt so helpless.”

“I’m sorry,” Mark said again, because he could only imagine what that felt like for him, knowing that his memories hadn’t been ‘phoenix rising from the ashes.’

Grant had memories of being small and sickly and then going through an agonizing process to grow to the size he’d become to be Captain America. He’d talked about how helpless he’d felt until he’d gotten the serum. He’d confessed that he was glad that he hadn’t been so small and sickly again, because he hated feeling helpless like that. But he wasn’t a super soldier anymore, either, which left him in a sort of limbo—strong enough that a bad cold wouldn’t kill him, but weak enough that he couldn’t do what Captain America used to in an effort to protect anyone.

He couldn’t imagine how Grant had felt, coming to the garage and finding it broken into like that, with no one there to greet him.

“I tried to call you,” Mark whispered, nuzzling into his neck.

Grant pressed a kiss to the top of his head, one hand beginning to sweep up and down his back. “I know. Natalie and I left our phones in the studio, and by the time we remembered… We didn’t want to give ourselves away—we’d pulled people in off the streets and had hunkered down in the main room, away from the windows. We couldn’t risk going to get them.”

“I understand,” Mark said quietly. He leaned back with a sniffle and looked up at him. “It worked out fine, I guess. Billy and I had to run, but Captain America got us to safety.”

“Good,” Grant said, and then, “Captain America?” and then he saw Bucky talking to Spider-Man, who had webbed his way over from Queens to see the kitten-aliens because he’d thought Wanda had been shitting him. “Ah. I hope the kittens aren’t offended,” he said, and then began marching over to Bucky without waiting for an answer.

Mark frowned after him, concerned. “Grant?”

“Just a second,” Grant called back.

Mark considered following him, but he mostly still wanted to go home and sleep for three years, so he stayed where he was. Besides, there was no more danger; the kittens had taken care of the rat-aliens quite handily, and they were currently in the process of freeing the captured humans from what looked like a highly technological hamster wheel.

He immediately regretted not following him, because Grant tapped Bucky on the shoulder and then just… _launched_ himself into a punch once he turned around. “GRANT,” he bellowed, mortified.

“They are quite lively,” an indigo kitten squeaked. “What are they fighting over? The right to father your little ones? Or are you currently experiencing a scarcity of food?”

“I don’t know,” Mark said, finally giving into the urge to cover his face, palms pressing into his eyes until he saw starbursts to try and stave off a headache.

“Well, you would know if there was a food scarcity, so it must be over the right to father your little ones,” the kitten reasoned. “I hope the blond one wins. The blue one is not as attractive.”

“That’s what I’m _saying_ ,” Mark blurted out, then clapped his hands over his mouth instead.

Natalie gave him some seriously lethal side-eye as she came to stand next to him. “Seriously? Captain America saved your life and all you can talk about is how bad he looks in blue.”

“It washes him out,” Mark exclaimed.

“So he does not normally look like that? Good. He will get more mates that way,” the kitten added.

Natalie closed her eyes and took a very long, very slow breath. She let it back out in a soft hiss. Finally, she turned to glare at him. “Your boyfriend is trying to beat up Captain America, Mark. You should do something about that.”

Mark hesitated. It looked an awful lot more like wrestling, because Bucky now had Grant in a headlock, and Grant was doing his damnedest to break free. It didn’t look like they were actually fighting so much as trying to settle something. And the shield was so close to them. They were fighting and the shield was so close.

“Oh,” Natalie said softly.

Mark turned to look at her, confused, and followed her gaze down to his chest, which he was protectively covering with both hands. He forced his hands down by his sides quickly, gripping them into fists to keep from covering his chest again.

“I see,” Natalie said grimly, and then began stomping toward them.

“Is she going to fight for the right to father your little ones, too?” the kitten squeaked. “I hope she wins.”

Mark considered all the questions that came to mind at the kitten’s statement, then decided he didn’t want to know the answers, instead just agreeing, “Me too.”

.-.-.-.

Bizarrely, Bucky was coming over for dinner.

Mark frantically fussed around cleaning the apartment, sweeping up twice and then carefully cleaning the birds’ cages. He cleared up clutter and even cleaned the blinds slat by slat. Then he eventually noticed Grant raising his eyebrows at him worriedly, and he settled in front of their bird of paradise, making sure each leaf was dusted as Grant cooked. Apparently, _he_ couldn’t be trusted not to poison him.

“He literally told you that the serum makes spice hurt his face,” Grant said, amused, as he chopped peppers for the world’s mildest fajitas. “Honey, you’d kill him the first time he tried your teriyaki chicken. You’re aware that that’s not supposed to be spicy, right?”

“Only if you’re a coward,” Mark muttered petulantly. “And! I have no idea how you managed to convince him to come after just fucking… _launching_ yourself at him. Anyway I don’t actually care because apparently Natalie is going to father my little ones. The Felons have decided.”

Grant bit his bottom lip to keep from laughing. “I can’t believe they call themselves Felons.”

“Shut up they are tiny and cute and I won’t have you making fun of them,” Mark declared. “They like my parrots. And also they saved our lives so. Anyway! Why is Bucky coming over for dinner after you socked him in the nose?”

“Because the future father of your children threatened him to and while she can’t kill a man with her thighs anymore, Bucky still fears her.” Grant paused, then added, “And it was his jaw, not his nose.”

“Oh my God,” Mark muttered. Then there was a knock on the door, and he squawked and fell over. The parrots copied the noise, and Mark had never looked so betrayed in his life.

Grant pinched himself to keep from laughing because Mark would probably never forgive him. “Do you want me to get that?”

“I’ve got it,” Mark said testily, getting to his feet and stomping to the door. He jerked it open with a scowl. “Hello.”

Bucky stared at him for a moment, stunned. Finally, though, he asked, “Should I leave?”

“Come inside,” Grant said hastily. “I’m just putting the peppers in now, so dinner should be ready in about ten minutes. He’s just mad because he couldn’t cook.”

“Oh,” Bucky said, and eased his way through the door carefully, apparently unwilling to totally believe that Mark didn’t want to slam the door on him. “I brought wine? MJ said I should be polite and bring a gift to the hosts.”

Mark snatched the bottle from his hands and scampered over to the kitchen island, opening drawers to find the corkscrew.

“…Great!” Bucky said after a moment. He looked around the apartment awkwardly, waved to You and Butterfingers when he noticed them, then finally sat down on one of the stools at the island. “So. You punched me in the face,” he said to Grant with a surprising amount of pleasantness, considering he’d been punched in the face.

“Oh, we’re starting with this?” Grant asked, glancing at Mark when he simply threw back his glass of wine instead of sipping it and then quickly refilled it. He went back to stirring the fajita mix. “Yeah, I did.”

Bucky waited for him to continue, then scowled when he realized that Grant wasn’t going to. “Why? I rescued Mark. He was safe.”

“I mean? Yeah?” Grant replied, squinting at him with a hefty amount of skepticism. “But I didn’t punch you because I thought you hadn’t.”

Bucky gaped at him, appalled. “What?!”

“I punched you because you made Mark sad,” Grant continued. He noticed Mark grabbing for his glass again and moved it away from him, ignoring the other man’s petulant whine and grabby hands. “When you sent that piece of art you bought to him. You found us again and… what? Decided you didn’t want us because we aren’t exactly the same as Steve and Tony?”

Bucky saw Mark grabbing for the bottle of wine and grabbed it out of his reach as well. “No,” he said. “I’m not the same person I was before I fell. Hell, I’m not even the same person I was at the battle with Thanos. I just thought… you’re both so happy now. I didn’t want to ruin it.”

Mark stopped making grabby hands at the bottle of wine to instead give him a devastated puppy-dog expression. “Why do you think you’d ruin anything? It’s… it’s _Steve_. You guys are… are…” He struggled to come up with words and eventually just crossed his fingers. “Like this! ‘Til the end of the line? That’s what Grant said!”

Bucky just frowned at him, looking confused and, perhaps, a little sad. “I’d thought that his death was the end of that line, Mark.”

“But he’s right _here!_ ” Mark exclaimed angrily, waving at Grant. “He’s right here, there’s no end of the line because he’s here! I mean, sure, he’s not as devastatingly handsome or whatever, but—”

“Wow!” Grant exclaimed, glaring at him.

Mark scowled at him, disgruntled. “I mean clearly you’re still attractive, Grant, but your jaw can no longer cut a man.”

“Wow!” Grant exclaimed again, but he looked amused now.

Mark looked back at Bucky, waving at Grant again in frustration. “He’s here, and he’s still Steve in all the ways that matter, all stupidly earnest and sincere and stubborn and—” He paused, looking at Grant hesitantly. “…And he remembers loving you.” He turned back to Bucky with wide, aching eyes. “Doesn’t that mean anything?”

“Remembering that he loved me is different than actually loving me,” Bucky told him gently. “The Bucky he remembers loving didn’t watch him die, didn’t have to move on. The Bucky he loved wasn’t Captain America.”

Mark stared at him, stunned, then exploded, “You’re pushing us away because you’re Captain America?!”

“No,” Bucky said immediately, trying to choke back a laugh, because apparently Mark was just as oblivious as Steve had said Tony was. “What I’m saying is, you two are happy. You finally have each other! There’s nothing keeping you apart, and that’s all you two ever seemed to want. I don’t want to come between you.”

Mark’s eyes went big and hurt again. He opened his mouth to say something.

But Grant cut him off, saying, “I don’t see why you couldn’t as long as it was all consensual.”

  
Bucky and Mark jerked to look up at him, jaws dropped. Grant smiled smugly.

“I am _trying_ to have an earnest conversation and you’re being gross!” Mark finally wailed as Bucky began to laugh.

“Gross!” Butterfingers called back. There was a distant, echoing ‘gross!’ from the bedroom where Dummy was.

Grant held his hands up before Mark could begin trying to bat at him. “I’m sorry. I saw a chance and I took it.”

“But we don’t need you to take a chance!” Mark exclaimed, batting at him anyway. “We need Bucky to! And now you’re going to make him think you only want him for sex!”

“I don’t only want you for sex,” Grant told Bucky, amused.

Bucky seemed to consider this, glancing back and forth between them. Finally, he smirked and said, “Can’t imagine I’m good for much else.”

“I’m leaving, I can’t believe you,” Mark snapped, stomping around the island. “I’m going to go live with Natalie and she’s going to let me feed her all the spicy food I want. I hope those bland-ass fajitas make you breathe fire. You deserve each other. You’ll never get to speak to me or my parrots again. Enjoy your life without any zest or spice or joy.”

“Mark,” Grant sputtered between chuckles. “Honey, come back. Oh my God.”

Bucky grabbed his arm before he could get too far, pulling him back, and when he tried to struggle, he wrapped his arm around Mark’s waist, tugging him until his back was pressed up against his chest. “Mark, come on. You know we’re joking.”

Mark struggled a little longer, then turned, pouting. “You’re bullying me is what you’re doing.” He scowled up at Bucky a little longer, then frowned. “You seem to know each other well enough to make jokes. Not _that_ much could have changed.” He gasped softly, face going stricken. “Oh. It’s me.”

Bucky’s smile fell. “What?”

“You don’t want to take a chance with me,” Mark said, voice quaking. “Because I blew off your arm and tried to kill you and now I’ve stolen Steve and—”

“Whoa,” Bucky whispered, mostly to himself, and he wasn’t proud of it, but he did lift his hand and cover Mark’s mouth with it to stop him from talking. “Whoa. That’s not—that’s definitely not what this is. Even if you were still the Tony who attacked me, I wouldn’t be mad at you for it. You’d just watched me murder your parents. You’d just learned that Steve had _hidden_ that from you. It wasn’t wrong to react in anger like you did.”

Mark’s eyes were starting to get damp. “Hm mm _mmm_ hhhm mm?”

Bucky opened his mouth, then closed it again. “Uh. What?” He watched Mark take a deep breath to repeat himself and only just remembered to pull his hand away when he felt Mark’s lips move against his palm.

“So you don’t hate me?” Mark asked, voice soft, like he was afraid to say the words aloud. As if Bucky might actually answer, ‘yeah I fuckin’ hate you,’ and then drop him on the floor just for good measure.

“No,” Bucky answered immediately, because he never wanted Mark to think he hated him. He didn’t, and he never actually had. He’d forgiven Tony for trying to murder him years ago. It wasn’t like he blamed him, after all. He still remembered the look on Tony’s face as he watched the video, the way he looked at Steve with agony in his eyes before it was covered by betrayal and anger. “I never did. How could I possibly judge you for feeling angry and hurt for being lied to?”

“I hurt you,” Mark whispered, ducking his head.

Bucky was about to tell him that it hadn’t even been that bad, considering the circumstances, but then he stopped and actually thought about it. Finally, though, he lifted a hand to gently curl his fingers into the hair at Mark’s nape. “Tell me, when you saw that video, that you didn’t think ‘and now he’s come to finish the job,’” Bucky told him, voice soft.

Mark jerked back, staring up at him in confusion. Then his face crumpled, and he dropped his gaze and whispered, “I can’t.”

“Mark,” Grant breathed, voice shaking. “You never told me that.”

“I didn’t—There was nothing to tell. I don’t think that,” Mark answered, not looking at him. “I didn’t even before we met. But Tony… Tony did.”

Bucky shot Grant a look to keep him quiet, beginning to rub slow, soothing circles on Mark’s back. “I can understand why,” he said thoughtfully. “Hydra knew Howard would never work for them, and they were threatened by him, so they had me kill him. It makes sense that one of your first thoughts would be that Hydra had implanted the thought to kill you for the same reason. You had just watched me kill your parents, and you were scared, and angry, and so you lashed out to protect yourself. And there’s nothing wrong with that. I don’t hate you,” he repeated, reaching out to cup Mark’s chin so he could tip his head back and meet his eyes. “I never did.

“Mostly I was just… sorry. And angry at Hydra for turning me into what I became. Any remaining feelings of regret or sadness I had for you, it was mostly because we never really, truly, got to make amends with each other before you died.” He slid his hand up so he could use his thumb to wipe away a tear. “I don’t hate you. I never have. And Mark… Tony. I’m sorry for all the pain I caused you. That I’m apparently _still_ causing you.”

“Please don’t leave,” Mark sniffed, turning his head so he could press his cheek into Bucky’s palm. “We want you here. And even if, down the road, we decide it doesn’t work out, can’t we still be friends? Please. I want to be friends.”

Bucky frowned at him, running his thumb over Mark’s cheekbone gently, then glanced up at Grant. Grant looked like he’d had all of the strength sucked out of him, staring at Mark, but when he noticed Bucky looking at him, he straightened his shoulders and lifted his chin, looking just as earnest and stubborn as Steve always had.

“I…” Bucky began, thinking of all his good intentions to leave them alone to their happily ever after. But apparently that wasn’t what they wanted. They… wanted him to stay. And he had been alone for so long that seeing the both of them look at him with such earnestness… he couldn’t find a reason to say no. “We’re going to have to move very slowly,” he finally decided.

Grant perked up immediately. “Yeah? We can move slow. I can be a glacier. Whatever you need.”

“I sincerely doubt that you can be a glacier, but yes, I need things to be slow,” Bucky replied, smiling a little when the blond let out an offended ‘hey!’ “Mark, can Grant do glacier-slow?”

“No,” Mark answered. “He really can’t. But! He’s really good at backing off when I ask him to.”

Grant gave Mark a look of absolute dismay. “Babe! We’re trying to sell ourselves here!”

“I feel like, if I have to eat your bland-as-fuck fajitas, I am already selling myself,” Mark reasoned.

Grant flapped his mouth at him uselessly, then looked down at the pan, frowning. Then he looked back up at Bucky, concerned. “Is there any possibility we could work up your spice tolerance? I’m honestly a little concerned myself.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow in amusement. “I’ll just bring my own meals.”

“No, we can cook for you!” Mark argued quickly. “It was just a question!”

Bucky considered this, then said, “So I guess this would be a bad time to tell you that that jalapeno you put in is already making my eyes water.”

“I didn’t even use a whole one you can smell it?!” Grant exclaimed, at the same time Mark clapped his hands to his cheeks and let out an alarmed yelp of horror.

Bucky ended up smothering his single fajita in sour cream and still spending the next hour on the couch with an icepack on his face, clutching his stomach. It was okay, though. Mark fussed over him with antacids and cool washcloths and gently stroking his hair until he relaxed like putty into the cushions. Grant went out and got him a milkshake. All in all, not the worst date he’d had.

.-.-.-.

Bucky did not have the luxury of moving in with them full-time, but his clothes did start showing up in the laundry, and he had his own shelf in the cupboards to put his blander food, and Mark had moved Dummy’s cage out of the bedroom to make room for a bigger bed so that all of them could sleep comfortably instead of someone inevitably ending up on the floor.

“Why were the parrots separated, anyway?” Bucky asked as he settled the mattress on the box spring singlehandedly.

“When I first rescued them, they were super traumatized, and Dummy kept pulling out its pinfeathers and bleeding everywhere, and it stressed Butterfingers and You out,” Mark explained, holding up the fitted sheet to figure out which end was up. “So I left Butterfingers and You in the living room where they’d always been and I bought a nice big cage with tons of stuff for Dummy to destroy so that it’d be too distracted to rip out its pinfeathers. When I lived alone it was kinda nice having it in here with me.” He hooked a corner of the sheet on and then shimmied over to the other side. “And Grant never had a problem with it, so it just never occurred to me to kick Dummy out.”

Grant tilted his head as Bucky nodded to show he understood. “Why do you call Dummy an ‘it’ anyway? I’ve seen the vet papers. Dummy’s a girl.”

“Dummy got mad every time someone tried to call it one and would start attacking them, including the vet I took it to,” Mark said with a shrug. “I think its owners tried to get You to breed with both Dummy and Butterfingers—like I said, they were in really bad shape when Mr. Lang and I found them—and I think Dummy was traumatized by the process, and whatever their previous owners said.”

Bucky paused, frowning, then cautiously asked, “Dummy’s not going to be mad that I forced it out of its safe space, is it?”

Mark looked up at him, startled. “What?”

“It’s not gonna think I kicked it out of its room?” Bucky explained.

“First of all I acclimated it slowly so it’s used to sleeping out in the living room with the others now. Secondly it’s my fucking room,” Mark said, and then, “ _Our_ room. You know who wears the pants in this apartment? Well I mean hopefully no one but it’s me. Dummy knows I’m the boss!”

“I thought I was the boss,” Grant teased, pulling the sheet down over another corner.

Mark swiveled to give him a very unimpressed frown. “I know that you’re making a joke about our pasts, but the hierarchy here is me, parrots, Bucky, and _then_ you.”

Grant clutched his chest, allowing the sheet to snap up and across the bed again. “Mark!”

“You still fear the birds in flight,” Mark continued, returning his attention to the bed. “You duck for cover, even though they only land on my head. One time you somersaulted backward out the door back into the hallway when Butterfingers started toward you. You broke all my eggs. I wanted an omelet.”

“But I still rank under Bucky?! I lived here for six months before he finally started seeing us romantically!” Grant exclaimed.

“Bucky has restraint and doesn’t goose me when I’m carrying car parts,” Mark declared.

Grant crossed his arms petulantly. “I don’t understand what the big deal was. They landed on _my_ feet.”

“I’ll let you be next after the parrots, Grant,” Bucky said, with only a little eyerolling.

Grant scowled at him for a moment, then muttered, “I know it’s pity but I’m still gonna take it because I already rank beneath the parrots.”

Bucky patted his back without a word, smiling a little, and began unwrapping the pillows they’d bought while Grant and Mark worked on getting the bed made the rest of the way. He didn’t think they actually needed a king-sized bed, considering that Mark and Grant were both heat-seekers and typically just ended up curled up on top of him like a couple of lizards on a hot stone, but Grant had been insistent. At least this way they would have plenty of room in the summer when they wouldn’t want the body heat.

“Oops,” Bucky muttered as he jerked on the plastic too hard and knocked Grant’s sketchbook from the bedside table. He bent down to pick it up, trying to shake the plastic off his other hand, only giving the sketch a cursory glance.

Then he realized what he’d seen, and he dropped the pillow to grab it again. “What the fuck?”

“Huh? Oh, that,” Grant said, pretty blasé for someone who had just had their dirty drawings found. “I was doing some anatomy practice.”

“Do you often practice dicks?!” Bucky sputtered.

It wasn’t that he was offended or anything. Steve had done some work for naughty magazines at one point, pre-serum, after all. And Steve had always enjoyed sketching his partners in various stages of undress (which Bucky and Peggy unfortunately learned when they accidentally grabbed the wrong sketches). And it wasn’t like he could practice anatomy with clothes on. But they’d been taking the relationship very, _very_ slowly.

“Bucky, I am so fucking horny,” Grant told him, voice serious. “I want to bone both of you so badly. But! I am a gentleman—”

“You are not,” Mark said.

“—and!” Grant continued, speaking over him. “I am respecting everyone’s boundaries and coping with my horniness by drawing. This is healthy. I have a healthy coping mechanism.”

Bucky stared at him, trying to decide whether he wanted to call him on his ridiculousness or not. Finally, he just asked, “Do you remember my dick or is this a guess? Because I… regret to inform you… that I am not this big.”

“No, I don’t remember. But I can have hopes and dreams,” Grant said hastily, snatching the sketchbook from him. “Mind your own business. I don’t go into your room and nose around your stuff!”

“I was just trying to unwrap a pillow,” Bucky exclaimed, defensive. “And then I was assaulted with dicks!”

Grant turned away from him with a disdainful sniff, closing the sketchbook and walking over to put it in a plastic box in case one of the parrots came in and thought it was a toy to be ripped up. “Well you could have looked away when you realized. Isn’t that right, Mark? …Mark?” He turned when he got no answer, covering his mouth when he saw Mark curled up around a pillow in the middle of the bed.

“He did say that we needed to thoroughly test the mattress,” Bucky mused. He leaned over the bed and gently stroked his fingers through Mark’s hair. “I thought he was making a sex joke.”

Grant sighed, frowning. He crossed his arms, then let them drop back to his sides, as if he didn’t know what to do with them. “I mean, he probably was, but he… he’s not been sleeping well, lately. He told me that he never does around his birthday. Somehow, he remembers things more vividly around it. And like he’s explained, Tony’s life… it wasn’t an easy one.” He managed a half a smile for Bucky. “It’s nice, though, that he feels safe enough to sleep with you here. Sometimes he worries that he’s faking it because he wants so badly to get on with you. But I’ve seen him with people he’s tried to convince himself he trusts, and he has never fallen asleep in front of any of them.”

Bucky felt his heart warming at the admission even with the concern at Mark’s current sleeping troubles. He’d always been very careful about his relationship with Mark, because of his contentious one with Tony—always backing off when Mark looked uncertain, not showing anything that could be perceived as disappointment when Mark asked for space. He’d been rewarded with shy smiles and soft kisses, and honestly, it was more than he’d ever imagined getting, so he didn’t even mind.

And now, knowing that Mark trusted him, despite how skittish he was… it was nice.

“I’m getting on the bed,” Bucky decided, and did just that, carefully easing himself down so that he wouldn’t disturb Mark, because he clearly needed the sleep. Then he gently wrapped his arm around him, pulling Mark in close, until the smaller man was turning away from the pillow and curling up against his side with a soft sound of contentment. “Fuck, that’s cute.”

“Here I come,” Grant said, crawling onto the bed as well. “Better make sure it’s a suitable mattress for all three of us.”

Bucky smiled a little. “You were just feeling left out.”

“That too!” Grant agreed, curling up against his other side. He squirmed until he was settled, then let out a very satisfied sigh, sinking into Bucky’s side and nuzzling into his shoulder. “This is nice.”

Bucky curled his arm around him as well, pulling them both in close. “Yeah, it is,” he said, thumb rubbing slow circles on Grant’s shoulder. Steve had always liked that, back when they lived in their tiny apartment in Brooklyn. Grant relaxed even more, reaching out so he could carefully touch Mark’s shoulder, too. “You can nap too,” he added. “I just wanna lie here and enjoy this for a while.”

“Okay,” Grant said, eyelids already drooping. “Hey, Buck?”

“Hmm?” Bucky hummed, glancing down at him.

Grant said nothing for a very long time, so long that Bucky thought he’d fallen asleep. But then he finally managed to slur, “This is gonna be so annoying in the summer.”

Bucky had to choke back a laugh because he didn’t want to shake Mark awake with one, hissing, “Grant!”

“Well it is,” Grant grumbled. “You’re like a furnace. Gross.”

“Stop saying funny shit, you asshole,” Bucky wheezed. “I don’t want to wake Mark.”

Grant sighed as if put upon. “Fine. Goodnight.”

“Enjoy your nap, punk,” Bucky said, and basked in the contentment he felt as both Mark and Grant slept, oblivious, on top of him.

He’d never thought he’d get to have this. He’d lost Steve, and he’d never even really _known_ Tony. He’d thought, vaguely, about having a partner at some point, but he’d always sort of brushed the thought off as wishful thinking. He was too busy, or it was too dangerous, or… he couldn’t remember all the reasons anymore. Mostly, he just thought he deserved to be alone. He had a hard time opening up, and he was terrified of exposing all of his flaws to a new person.

But Mark and Grant had known all of that about him already. Had known, and still wanted him. Had been upset at the idea that their feelings weren’t returned. Had put themselves in vulnerable positions to show their earnestness. Had opened their home and their hearts to him willingly.

Bucky leaned in to press a kiss to Mark’s forehead, then turned, nudging Grant awake. “Hey. Hey, Grant.”

“You’re such an asshole to me,” Grant muttered. “So cruel. This is unjust. I’m filing a complaint with the feds because Captain America is an asshole.”

“Would you paint something for me?” Bucky asked softly. “As a surprise. For Mark.”

Grant jerked fully-awake immediately with a snort. “Wha-huh? Yeah. Of course.”

“I had this idea,” Bucky explained, and Grant’s smile widened with every word.

.-.-.-.

There was a giant, sheet-covered easel in the living room.

Mark immediately made a beeline for it and yelped when Bucky wrapped an arm around him to drag him back. “No I wanna see!” he exclaimed, making grabby hands at the sheet.

“Will you wait a second, you little art gremlin,” Grant sighed fondly, rolling his eyes.

Mark crossed his arms and scowled, muttering to himself.

“Well, that bodes well,” Bucky said lightly. “That means he might like my idea.”

Mark whipped around to stare up at him. “Your idea?”

“I wanted Grant to make this piece for you. It’s special,” Bucky explained.

Mark blinked slowly, considering, before his lips spread into a shy smile as he ducked his head. “You guys made me a present?”

“Well, you were so upset by the last present I gave you,” Bucky mused. “So I thought this one should be on better terms.”

Mark made grabby hands at the painting again. “I love it already!”

“You haven’t even seen it,” Grant sighed, rolling his eyes, and he tried to sound stern, but even to his ears it didn’t sound like it. He went over to grab the sheet, deciding any try at being the calmer person would fail, since he was also very excited about the piece.

“I love anything you make, Grant,” Mark told him earnestly. It would have been heart-melting, except he was still frantically making grabby hands at the painting.

Bucky laughed. “Hurry up and show him before he pulls a muscle or something.”

Grant raised his eyebrows at them. “He could stand to learn how to wait,” he teased, but then pulled the sheet down, fabric pooling around the easel’s feet.

Mark went still in Bucky’s arms, a gasp freezing in his throat, and he only exhaled it in a breathless ‘oh’ when Bucky squeezed him a little in concern.

Bucky had asked Grant to do a painting of the three of them watching a sunset on the roof. It looked almost like a photograph rather than a painting. The three of them had their backs to the viewer, each lock of hair and wrinkle of fabric brushed to perfection. Bucky and Grant had their hands clasped together behind Mark’s back, and both of them were resting their heads on Mark’s shoulders. Their shadows were what drew his attention, though—Bucky’s in the shape of a smaller man with the sharp edges of a uniform, and Mark’s in the shape of the Iron Man armor, and Grant’s in the shape of the original Captain America’s silhouette with another, slightly darker shape of a smaller, frailer body inside it.

Bucky watched several emotions cross Mark’s face and wondered if he overstepped, quietly asking, “Do you like it?”

“I,” Mark began, voice thick, then jerked to look up at him, eyes wide and wet. “I love it,” he choked out, then threw his arms up around his neck and just clung to him. “I love it. I love it. It’s perfect. I love it.”

Bucky curled his arms around him again, holding him tightly. “I’m glad. I hoped you would.”

Mark sucked in a wet breath and turned back to the painting, one hand drifting down to cover his mouth as his eyes darted around the painting, trying to take in every detail as quickly as possible. Bucky hesitantly let him out of his arms so he could approach the painting. Mark reached out a shaking hand as if to touch it, then drew it back like he was afraid to.

“Babe,” Grant called softly. “You okay?”

“I’m just—overwhelmed, just give me a—you added the _parrots_ ,” Mark gasped when he noticed them perched in the corner, tiny shadows forming square shapes with arms instead of avian ones. “Oh my God,” he whispered, reaching out to pull Grant into a hug too. “Oh my God. I love it. I love _you_. Both of you. Oh my God.”

Bucky considered telling him that if he looked closer, the stars appearing at the edges of the sunset were actually teeny-tiny portraits of their old friends. He decided to wait, though, because he was obviously overwhelmed. Instead, he walked over and slid his arms around both of them, leaning down to press a kiss to Mark’s forehead before he teasingly said, “And here I was afraid you wouldn’t like it.”

Mark turned so he could whisper into his chest, “I love all of Grant’s art. And I love your idea. It’s perfect. Thank you.” He jerked back. “I want to put it above the bed.”

“We cannot put it above the bed,” Grant began.

“Those paintings can move out here,” Mark told him firmly. “They’re mine so I get to choose.” He turned back to the piece he’d just been gifted, eyes softening. “I want this one above the bed. I want to be able to start and end my day with it. I want to be able to look at it when I have a nightmare, or a memory, or whatever it is. I just—I just want it close.”

“Okay,” Bucky agreed when Grant just stared down at Mark with tender eyes. “Okay, doll. We’ll put it above the bed.”

Mark smiled up at them, then leaned in to buss a kiss to Bucky’s jaw. Then he turned and pressed one to Grant’s cheek before he hid his face in Grant’s chest, apparently embarrassed.

Bucky shared a smile with Grant as they curled around him. They might have to take the headboard off the bed to make it fit, but they’d do it. After all, he wanted to be able to see it whenever he could, and if that wasn’t the greatest compliment to Bucky’s idea and Grant’s skill, they didn’t know what was.

Well. Maybe it was Mark regaining control of himself and beginning to pepper them with kisses. That was definitely nice. Especially when he began pushing them toward the bedroom under the guise of ‘finding the best spot for the painting.’

**Author's Note:**

> Bonus points if you knew exactly who was New Avengers and who wasn't lmaooooooo


End file.
